Capture the Flag
by triquetral
Summary: Mid season 4. A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
1. Playing the Percentages

**A/N:** Season 4, this is set in between _Criss Angel Is a Douchebag_ and _Death Takes a Holiday_. WIP - mostly done, but still being looked at. Basically, I started writing this as pure h/c and whatever medications Dean was on had side effects of drowsiness and case-fic-itis. So, several chapters into it - an actual plot jumps out at you. I'm going to try to be consistent with weekly postings.

Thank you to waveobscura for the beta!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothin'.

(This chapter is pretty much just set up. The second chapter the h/c starts in, so be patient if you're reading)

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Sam Winchester leaned back against the passenger seat of the Impala, enjoying some unseasonably warm late autumn weather in western Pennsylvania. A perfect day for riding with the windows down and letting one of your arms get more tan than the other. Case after case, Dean and Sam had been sending all manner of otherworldly creatures back to their other,…well, worlds. Sam had been very hesitant to let Dean drive at all today, considering he looked beyond exhausted, but Dean had been quick to point out that Sam was not going to deprive him of driving his baby on what was surely the last good day of the year to roll the windows down.

Even having won that battle, Dean didn't seem his robust self. Hadn't for about a week or so, Sam realized when he thought about it. But they had been on duty more than off during the past two months. Who knew if there was a reason for so much spectral overload or not, the apocalypse maybe? Dean had been calling up Bobby to keep them on the lookout for omens, even Ellen once or twice - who still had her ear to the hunting ground, so the boys could go after the source or know which seal to protect next. So far, no dice.

Sam continued to glance his brother over.

Dean gave him a characteristically pre-annoyed look, reserved for when he felt like there was going to be a long conversation in the works. "What, Sam, what?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Er, yeah," Sam emphasized, as if he didn't have a clue in the world what Dean could be referring to. Dean knew better.

"Just - you stare much longer, you'll burn your eyes out. I'm so damn pretty it's like looking into the sun. I can't help these rugged good looks." Dean glanced toward his brother, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly upward.

"Well, I was staring, but at your _huge_ ego."

"Don't be jealous, Sammy."

The two brothers paused for a moment, exchanging wry grins.

"Seriously, Sam – I know you want to say something, so you might as well spit it out. I know the look."

"The look?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, the friggin' look!"

"Okay, dude, calm down. I was just wondering if you're okay." Sam gestured placatingly.

"Me? Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Well, you aren't 'so damn pretty' today, and you usually sing purposefully, with great gusto, for _hours_ – for pleasure or to annoy me… either way, not a peep lately." Sam nodded his head toward the radio where the boys of KISS were wooing the ladies and rocking the gents.

Dean gave his brother a sidelong look. "So because I'm not bursting with song there's a problem? Have I ever given the impression that I was the Julie Andrews type?"

Sam shot Dean a look that called bullshit on that, because they both knew that while Dean might not be the Julie Andrews type, he was definitely the Robert Plant type. Instead of outwardly calling his brother on this, he let it slide. Sam had let a lot of Dean's behavior since Hell slide. "Well, that's why I wasn't going to say anything…until _you_ made me."

"Until I what?" Dean's jaw dropped and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment until he found words of rebuttal. "Well, if you'd keep your x-ray vision to yourself, maybe I'd be content to keep my trap shut then."

"Fair enough. But I think I know you pretty well, man. And this – " Sam waved a hand toward his brother, " - isn't you. Something is off. Maybe you're just tired; I know we've had a helluva long haul."

"Yes, we have." Dean said, his tone implying that this was the obvious answer. "If another job doesn't crop up, I am very sure I'll be catching some shuteye for a good chunk of tomorrow. But we go where the job takes us, Sammy, you know that."

Sam did know that, but clearly having two days of rest in a row couldn't hurt, so long as no lives were in peril, especially where his brother was looking so ragged.

"A job is a job, but – we still got to eat, right?" Sam unfolded the map in his lap a bit more. "Lunchtime soon enough, there are a couple places off the next two exits. Why don't we see if we can find something and top off the tank?"

"Now you're talking sense."

**:::**

**:::**

Three more hunts cropped up in the next week and a half, keeping them in Pennsylvania. One was a pain in the ass salt and burn of a vengeful spirit. There had been a rash of graveyard vandalism in the area, and due to extremely disorganized burial records and dealing with the ghost of "John Smith," the brothers ended up with having to dig five graves that night just to try and find the bastard's body. It was a cold, damp and annoying night.

The next hunt was a pretty standard poltergeist. The research was easy and the banishing had been pretty standard too. Sam had gotten tossed around quite a bit, though. For whatever reason, after Dean had blessed his corner of the house – he took a helluva long time getting back to where Sam was, in the master bathroom upstairs. The master bathroom had been where the ghost had committed suicide – and now, regretting her decision immensely, was trying to put as much life into her afterlife as possible. She did not want to go peacefully and had bashed Sam's head into the mirror before trying to bash him over the head with the toilet plunger.

Dean never told Sam why he had taken so long to get upstairs, but had mumbled an apology and occasionally got a wounded look in his eyes – usually after his eyes strayed to the stitches visible at Sam's hairline.

By the time they hit the third hunt (a werewolf that Dean had lovingly dubbed Teen Wolf since the creature had been preying on the local high school's athletic department), they were both run into the ground fairly well. Sam thought Dean was the worse off brother, though. Of course, every time he tried to call him on it, he got the standard "I'm fine" response. It didn't help Dean's point that his replies were increasingly accompanied by coughing jags that Dean tried to pass off – something in his throat, wrong pipe, always an answer.

By the end of the hunt, Sam was more than a little frustrated – especially when Dean had barely been able to run two blocks after the wolf. He had shown up in the nick of time to save Sam from being served up as the entrée at the Alpha Dog café, wheezing and covered in cold sweat. He had blamed it on "old age" of all things, which had earned him a glare and the silent treatment for a good couple of hours before Sam finally felt he had to broach the conversation again. The boys headed back to the motel room, knowing they needed to ditch town before the bullet-ridden body of Teen Wolf was discovered. Dean sat on the receiving end of the silent treatment while Sam packed their gear up, mostly by slamming every object they owned into a bag, slamming every door – including the doors to the car when they got back on the road in the wee hours of morning.

Dean wisely chose not to yell at Sam for slamming the doors of the Impala, which had taken a lot of self-restraint. He had known the conversation was waiting there, lurking under the surface – and he wanted to avoid it as long as possible. Frankly, he was feeling like he had been run over by a truck, but there was no way he was going to tell Sammy that. Poor kid was already going out of his mind with worry about all the Hell stuff. Plus, he just didn't have _time_ to be sick. They were at _war_, goddammit. He was pretty sure when the Man Upstairs hired you for a job you didn't get to call out. So, Dean had settled for listening to his music and letting his brother sulk. It was inevitable when Sam did finally pipe up. _Really, you could set your watch by this kid – he's more on time than Amtrak – The Sammy Nag Express, _Dean thought ruefully_._

"You're sick, dude. Just admit it before you get one of us killed."

_All aboard._

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm fine, Sam? And, I believe I was the one saving _your_ ass back there." Dean gave Sam a pointed look, for indeed – Dean had been the one who shot the werewolf right after it had tackled Sam, the bullets thankfully knocking the creature away before its teeth could connect with Sam's neck.

"It doesn't matter how many times you say it if none of them are true. And you barely got there in time."

"I got there." Dean said darkly. "You saying you think I don't have your back?"

He didn't need the reminder that Sam seemed to be getting on fine without him when he was in Hell. He also didn't need the reminder that him feeling like ass could be putting Sam at risk. He was doing quite well beating himself up all on his own, thank you very much. Getting up the stairs of the poltergeist house, his chest had seized up – and he had felt a sharp pain with each breath that left him leaning on the banister while he heard Sam getting tossed around above him. He had pushed through it the best he could, rationalizing that maybe he had pulled something from digging all those graves two days previously. And running after the werewolf had been an exercise in torture, as his lungs just didn't seem to be getting enough air, any air.

Sam took a breath. The last thing he wanted to do was insult Dean. "I trust you with my life, you know that. There's no one else I want watching my back. But if you're not at 100%, and hell – I don't think you're even at 70 right now - then we need to lay low for a bit until you're feeling better."

Partially mollified by Sam emphasizing he knew Dean had his back, Dean lightened. "C'mon, Sammy. I'm at least 75. If it makes you feel better, we'll have a nice leisurely day today. We have to, right? We're out of jobs for the moment anyway." Dean pulled a big broad smile out, trying to reassure his younger brother the best he could. The rest of the ride went easier after that.

Eventually they were far away from Werewolfville that they felt safe stopping for lunch and Dean pulled the Impala in at a local diner that had a blinking neon sign casting light on a spinning tiered display of different varieties of pie. It was no mystery why the elder Winchester pulled in to this restaurant.

They talked about the normal things they always did. Hashing down new and creative ways to gank ghosts ("Blessed seawater with iron flakes in it, Sam, I swear – we need to try that shit out!"), laughing at the locals, amusing themselves by coming up with increasingly silly-yet-believable covers.

"Your food okay?" Sam asked, his brow furrowing. He realized that the newly dubbed "Officer Steve Nicks" had maybe eaten about half of his burger and was poking a single french fry into the ketchup repeatedly.

"Yeah, just..not as hungry as I thought, I guess." Dean said, looking as though he thought nothing of it as he stood up and reached into his pocket for his wallet and then tossed some bills on the table. "Pay the waitress and call Bobby, would you? I'm gonna fill up the car."

"What? Yeah, sure. Go 'head."

Dean nodded distractedly and walked past the elderly waitress coming over to their table.

Her kind face split into a sweet smile, "No chance I can interest you in some pie, hon?"

Sam glanced at the door his brother had already walked out of. Dean not ordering pie, especially at a place that was clearly known for its pie – it was like a bad omen. "Guess we'll take a couple pieces to go…apple is in season still?"

"Absolutely! Last few bushels of the year."

"Well, how about that and…pecan?" Sam decided he couldn't go wrong with either. The only pie he'd ever seen Dean hesitate on was mincemeat and the dude had still eaten it.

"Sure, be right over with that and your check."

"Great, thanks." Sam said, giving her a quick flicker of a smile as he fumbled to get his phone out and dial.

"Hey, Bobby!"

The gruff voice resounded clearly through the line. "Hey, kid. A few weeks since I heard your voice, missed your sweeter disposition! Where's your brother, you two finish up that last job alright?"

"No, no…job was fine, wolf's dead. Dean is filling up the car, wanted me to check if you have any more leads on seals." Sam fiddled with his wallet, adding some money for the pie to the small pile Dean had left.

"Nope, not that I can tell. Shouldn't even be offering this to you guys, but I do have a lead on another job if you two want in."

Sam hesitated, the silence hanging awkwardly in the air. His number one priority right now had to be getting Dean some rest, even if it was only in the car.

"Sam?"

"How close is it? Maybe a couple of days drive?"

Bobby, as always, was quick on the uptake, hearing the reluctance in Sam's voice. "I'm sorry, that's what I thought…you two must be bone-tired, hauling ass like you have been."

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, a rest would be good."

"I keep telling your brother to slow down. That you two aren't the only two hunters in the continental US."

"You do, do you?" Sam was surprised. Part of him had thought maybe he was just being insanely overprotective – but apparently other people had noticed Dean being raggedy too.

"Yep. Sounds like he ain't listening neither."

"I can tell you right now, Bobby, he isn't. He looks like crap. He—" Sam's voice trailed off. He felt to say much more was like being a bit of a gossip, even though it was out of concern for his brother, and even if it was Bobby.

"Well, Sam, last few times I spoke with him, he sounds like it, or maybe just full _of_ it. Can't fight superhuman things if you think you're superhuman; it'll just get yerself killed. Take care, kid. Smack that idjit brother of yers upside the head for me, will ya?"

That was Bobby for you, plain as day. But at least Sam knew that maybe it wasn't just _him_ being overprotective. Pressing the disconnect button on his Blackberry gave him renewed license to make sure Dean took it easy the next couple of days, ate well, slept long.

**:::**


	2. Hell Hath No Fury Like a Sammy Scorned

**A/N:** This chapter beta'd by** waveobscura (Big Thanks!)**. After we reach chapter 4, she is off the hook and all mistakes and poor phrasing choices are completely and utterly on me. Originally, I was going to be doing weekly posts, but I'm kinda stupidly giddy about posting. So, once a day or once every few days is probably how it'll go.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the boys. More's the pity.

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Dean had gotten himself into the Impala and into the connecting parking lot of the gas station with barely enough time to dart up to the counter to nearly throttle the young cashier for the grubby bathroom key. He kept his hand out for balance, grazing the vinyl-siding of the wall as he made his way to the door, dizziness and nausea churning the bites of burger. Hurriedly locking himself in the men's room he quickly splashed some water on his face, trying to wipe the beads of cold sweat off as soon as they were forming. Seated above the nausea, there was that same chest tightness he had been dragging around silently for weeks, except now it seemed to have brought friends that left him working harder for each breath, like there was less space in his chest.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to will the stabbing sensations away by taking more shallow breaths, which did nothing to improve his color, the dizziness, or the pain. Taking an amber pharmacy vial out of his jean pocket his clammy fingers snatched up a couple heavy duty painkillers that he and Sam had always reserved for the most intense injuries. He weighed them in his hand as he was weighing the options. He could finally admit to Sam he hadn't been feeling well and deal with constant concern over the sniffles, or take the meds so that he could sit up over the steering wheel – get them to a motel – where they could both have a good night's rest.

The more he thought about it, the more tempted he was to tell Sam. The last thing he wanted to do was put the kid in danger, although the second last thing he wanted to do was worry him. But, he could own up, Sam could drive, it'd probably be safer for all three of them (the car included). They could get some rest, and everything would be fine.

He had nearly convinced himself of this when a wracking, wheezing, coughing fit seized him, making him feel like his lungs were dry bits of sandpaper being scraped together. When he finally was able to rasp in an uneven breath, his first act was to swallow the meds.

He leaned heavily on the sink and stared himself dead in the eye in the streaky mirror. Movement in his periphery made his eyes dart to the the left, where, reflected in the mirror, there was a man staring at him intently, sadly. Like lightning, Dean unholstered his weapon only to spin around and confront…

…nothing.

A random ghost in a gas station bathroom who didn't do a goddamn thing? No…no. He was just exhausted was all.

_C'mon, Dean, snap out of it! If you're not going to yak, you're not gonna yak. So don't spend all day dicking around this shithole, go work a job._

It was what he always did when he felt the least bit overwhelmed – threw himself into the job. Sam wasn't going to let him do that if he said he was sick. Besides, this discomfort was nothing compared to the discomfort of the poor bastards he had tortured down in the Pit. So damned if he was allowed to take time off. He didn't give them time off when they had begged for mercy – and they _had_ begged. Dean could still hear their shrieks and pleas to make the pain stop. Hunting meant redemption, accepting the pain in his chest meant accepting punishment – which as far as he was concerned was well-deserved. No, he couldn't stop, not for anything. Stopping meant he forgave himself – and he didn't think he ever would. Worse, stopping meant he had more time to think about it. He was just going to have to suck it up.

It took at least ten minutes before he was satisfied that he was steady enough to head back out. Opening the door, he began the walk back across the too-bright parking lot toward the car, where Sam was leaning, cocking his shaggy head as he scanned the whole street for his brother.

"Dean, where'd you – " as Dean got closer and closer, Sam stopped speaking in stunned silence, "Jesus, dude..."

Dean cleared his throat. "What, Sammy?" He was hoping he pulled off that Dinero-esque nonchalance.

Sam ran his hand through his hair in frustration and then wrung his hands out at Dean as if he'd like to wring his brother's neck. "Okay, that's really enough of this bullshit. I thought maybe, just _maybe_, I was being overprotective – that maybe you were just a little under the weather and exhausted – but that I was making a bigger deal out of it than it was. And then I talk to Bobby, who told me he _already_ told you to stop running yourself into the ground. Even on the phone you sounded off to him. Still I thought, maybe – overworked, running from what happened in Hell…"

Dean tried to concentrate on the build-up of Sam's outburst, but the sun was just so bright and the cement was glaring up at him in an odd angle. He wanted to interrupt, but he didn't think his breath would support the words at the moment.

"… and you CAN'T stand here covered in sweat, shaking, and GREY and expect me to ignore it!"

"Sam…" Dean was trying to think of an appropriate response, but had nothing. Sam Winchester stood up at his full height, snatched the car keys out of his brother's hand and opened the door on the passenger side, steering him over toward the entrance into the car.

"Dean…sit down, before you fall down. Sit down, before I _put_ you down."

Chancing a glance at his hands and realizing they _were_ shaking, Dean figured the measure of Sam's resolve would win in any fight. And blessedly, he felt the awful pitchforks ease up on his lungs – the meds were starting to work or he was feeling better. Either way, it made him feel like a more reasonable human being. Dean took a step back, held his hands up as if in surrender and got in the car.

Sam was taking breaths that were almost as shallow as Dean's, although he was just trying to control himself.

"Will you give me any indication on what kind of medications you need?"

"Sammy, I…"

"Simple question, Dean, really not up for debate…stomach stuff, cold stuff…what?" It was amazing how Sam could pull off having his teeth clenched in anger and his voice and eyes still pleading.

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, which turned out to be a mistake, the nausea revisiting as it joined the vertigo spinning above his head.

_Choice A, _he thought_, Keep your mouth shut and look like you're being a dick to Sam by not answering. Choice B, puke all over your car, make Sam more worried and possibly more angry._

Choice A seemed the more sensible path.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Fine, I'll just get a little of everything." He pivoted sharply and made his way back to the mini-mart attached to the gas station. Defcon 1 Bitchface alert.

Dean leaned back against the seat, realizing that he felt chilled, even with the too-bright sun beating down on him. He grabbed his jacket out of the backseat, wincing as he felt the deep ache in his back, his breath hitching inside him as if it were stuck on a rusty nail. He wanted to put the coat on, to be sitting in the car with a steely gaze readied for Sam, to say, "I'm fine, Pollyanna." Instead, he settled for shifting it over the front of his body like a blanket, trying to pull his heat into the corner of the car, leaning his head against the window.

_Just for a minute. Just going to close my eyes for a minute._

**:::**

**:::**_  
_

Sam's temper had somewhat calmed down on the way back to the car, concern replacing it. He had seen Dean look that ashy hue before – after the rawhead, after his heart was giving out. That thought nagged at him, and he began wondering if he should drag Dean to a hospital this instant. He hurried his pace outside the parking lot, hefting a large grocery bag in of whatever remedies a mini-mart is bound to be stocked with.

He expected to see Dean glaring at him, maybe even Dean having shifted himself into position in the driver's seat – hand outstretched for the keys. Not Dean curled up into the tightest ball he could manage, condensation on the window beginning to drip from where his forehead met the glass.

As quietly as possible, he tucked the bag into the backseat and slid in next to Dean, pulling the door closed with a soft whumpity-click.

"Whazzat?!" Dean shot up like a rocket, his voice rasping, and pain draining the flushed color his face had begun to have. Now it looked like he was a girl set loose in her mother's blush, with two high noon spots on his cheeks. "Sam?" he asked uncertainly, pressing a hand into his eyes, "what's goin' on?"

"Nothing. We're all stocked up, now we gotta get you to bed, but I need you to take some aspirin first, okay?" With ease, Sam reached back into one the brown paper sacks and came up with a bottle of ginger ale and a bottle of aspirin that he began taking the cotton packing out of. "C'mon, dude, sit up," he said, as Dean curled himself back against the window.

Dean wanted to argue, tease, joke – anything to take that concerned tone out of his brother's voice. "Dude, chill out. Nearest motel has gotten be, what…10 minutes away? Can't we just mosey on down and get situated someplace comfortable?" He didn't even turn his head, speaking mostly into door.

Now that was a huge tip off to how Dean was feeling if Sam ever heard one. His brother never wasted daylight when they could be on the road, not if he could help it. Instead of even bothering to argue the point, Sam reached over to pull Dean into a sitting position by the scruff of his neck. Dean's reflexes were apparently mostly intact – as he deftly grabbed Sam's wrist before it could make contact. "Sam, fine! Just lay off and gimme the goddamn pills."

Sam complied and Dean swallowed the aspirin with a swig of the fizzing ginger ale.

Resisting the urge to blanch at the flavor, Dean gave Sam a crooked grin. "Gosh, cupcake, still mad at me?"

"Shut it, man."

They were halfway to the nearest motel when Sam started talking. Well, admonishing.

"You don't even know, do you? You talk this big game, how losing me killed you, how it was unacceptable, how you had to sell your soul for my life. How do you think _for one second_ it would go for me if I lost you after just getting you back? Last time..." Sam couldn't even say it. Last time had nearly killed him. "You're so busy trying to be my goddamn moral compass about using the psychic shit that you don't even know which way you're facing anymore!"

"You need to back off, right now, Sam. Talk a big game?!" Dean shouted angrily. The shouting sparked a coughing fit that lingered until he was able to add, "I might remind you that I'm ALL follow through when it comes to this family."

"Yeah, Dean, when it comes to checking out. When it comes to sticking around, you seem to have a lack of motivation." Sam inserted bitterly.

"Lack of motivation, my ass!" Dean paused and caught his breath, clearly not in the gladiator shape necessary for moralizing. And he could say quite a few things about just which one of them ran away from family. "This is just a bug, Sam, on top of being dog-tired. So just drive to the friggin' motel and I can get some rest, and then, _believe me,_ I'll kick your ass nice and proper."

Sam rolled his eyes and they continued the rest of the drive in silence.

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~Reviews Appreciated~


	3. America's Sweethearts

**A/N:** This chapter beta'd with flair and style by waveobscura. You guys are getting two chapters today, because I am on a lot of opiates. Go Team!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. More's the pity.

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Chapter 3

America's Sweethearts

The vacancy sign at the motel was the most welcome sign Dean had ever seen, including signs from the douche-tastic angel crew. Although, maybe Castiel was looking out for them by making sure there were empty rooms in town.

"I'll get the room." Sam said in monotone. Muddled up with the anger directed at brother right now was concern, concern he knew he wouldn't be rewarded for showing.

_Well, turns out a little righteous indignation is all the medicine I need,_ Dean thought to himself. Before their little spat, it had crossed Dean's mind that pretending to be fine in any capacity was going to be rendered completely moot if he needed help getting inside, but a little aggression got the old synapses firing, making his vision sharper, and his previously murky sense of balance a bit more on target. As soon as Sam was back with the key to open the door, Dean chipped right in with carrying some of their things inside. There was still the twinge in his chest, but it was much more manageable, dulled down for the moment by the painkillers.

With barely a glance his way, Sam lined up the entire collection of convenience store remedies on one of the bedside tables. "Whether you want to discuss things with me or not, Dean, just take care of yourself."

"Whoa, Sammy." The elder brother eyed the bottles and boxes. "Motion-sickness meds? We getting on a boat or were you trying to clean out the store?" Dean, feeling a bit more like himself, or at least a bit more comfortable slipping into his old façade, gave his brother a wide, teasing grin.

"I dunno. I didn't know what you needed –so I pretty much just got one of everything." Sam sighed heavily. "Dude, I want you to trust me, to let me in, but I can only fight you on it so much." Sam gazed at Dean with a wry grin, but still looked beyond frustrated. "And I can't make you want to be here with me."

The grin immediately dropped from Dean's face. And as much as Dean definitely wanted to snark something back about how it was _Sam_ who was leaving Dean in the dark about quite a few things, it was really the last thing Sam said that he needed to address. "Hey, stop…right now. This is so not about trust. I'm just not going to get you all worked up about something I can get a good snooze and fix. You know me, that's just how I am. And…how can you possibly think…"

Dean's voice choked gruffly on a bit of emotion, though he played it off well by clearing his throat.

"Think…?" Sam prompted.

Dean took as big a breath as he could manage. "Sam, how can you think there is any place but right here with you, on this earth, for me?" Oh good god, his co-star Julia Roberts was going to come around the corner with a box of Kleenex any second now.

Still, Dean pushed forward. "There isn't any other goddamn place. I have my shit to get through, after coming back… but getting through it, that's all about staying too. So, I'm sorry if my joy isn't coming through, but believe me – it's there."

It was a truth that needed to be said, because as completely wrapped up in his transgressions against humanity as Dean was, he had the one thing on earth he wanted more than anything else – to wake up every day and see his brother alive. The thought of Sam being alive and carrying on was the thing that kept Dean from breaking under thirty years of torture, the one thing that kept his own humanity intact. Being back with his brother again, that was his happy place – the place he went to as Alastair played with his intestines and he slipped into shock again and again. After thirty years, the permanence of Hell began to truly set in. Dean began to lose his happy place, that tiny shred of hope – the image of driving in the Impala with his brother. When he lost that image was when they finally broke him.

Dean wasn't a religious man, but it was hard not to think about religion considering he had angels on his ass. People who try to explain what they think Hell is, the people who don't realize there truly is a fiery abyss waiting to claim them, say that Hell is simply the absence from God; that being apart from God's grace, his love, is what makes your soul empty out and fill with despair. And even though Dean knew from firsthand experience that there was a Hell, he thought that maybe the sentiment was true enough. For him, though, it wasn't absence from God that was the problem. It was absence of his brother, absence of the person who gave him purpose, gave him strength, and loved him through all his faults. But – God is love, yadda, yadda, so maybe it boiled down to the same thing.

Dean's emotional outburst had left his breathing a tad bit more shallow, but it passed momentarily as he kept his eyes focused on his brother, who was gazing at him 1) with tears in his eyes and 2) as if Dean had three heads. Both made Dean squirm uncomfortably.

"Okay, now that we've covered this, Sammy, can we watch TV? And something a little less "Steel Magnolias"?"

Sam surreptitiously wiped his eyes, trying to hide his face behind a grubby TV Guide. "Sure, man. Looks like "The Rock" is on in a few minutes."

"Hey, I am _all_ about a good prison break story." Dean's face lit up as he joked.

"I know, dude. I'm going to hit the shower. There's pie on the table."

"Pie, huh?" Dean said to himself. Well, he hardly had any lunch and no breakfast – food was in order. Still, his stomach was not so beyond the memory of nearly losing his lunch. But – it was _pie_. His eyes scoped out the bedside table laden with medications. He tried to catalogue quickly in his head…pain meds, aspirin on top of that…so what else was safe to take now? Sammy would know this, but he really didn't want to have to ask. Instead, he chose a swig of The Pink Stuff, a couple of the motion sickness tablets (they did say nausea, so why not hedge your bets?), and a hearty swig of some kind of Tussin-cough-crap, which he nearly didn't keep down due to the vile taste. It was enough to put the idea of snarfing the pie down out of his head. Dean blanched and tried to clear the bitter tang of the syrup out with another swig of the ginger ale – which was really just as bad in his opinion, and then settled in to watch some Sean Connery feats of strength.

**:::**

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Sam came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair, doing his best Connery impression, quoting Dean's favorite line from "The Rock."

"Losers always whine about their best! Winners go home and fuck the prom queen!"

Figured. The one time Sam was able to quote a movie correctly and Dean was out like a light. Sam sighed, gazing at his brother. If he was honest with himself, he had been expecting it to be lights out fairly soon after they got there, even though it was early afternoon. What he hadn't expected was for so many of the meds to have their wrappers discarded. He went through the table like this was a job and he needed to find the clues.

"Sooo…stomach, chest, probably a fever, and …pain." Sam clicked off, his foot nudging the vial-shaped lump that was in Dean's jeans on the floor. He scooped the jeans off of the floor, his long fingers deftly pulling out the bottle. While he had been in the bathroom he had scoped out the first aid kit and noticed some of their supply had gone missing. It really wasn't that much of a leap to know where it had gone. It was the Vicodin from the last concussion Sam had, a minor one that he felt fine taking Advil for after the first day, saving the rest of the pills for more painful injuries. Sam didn't know if it was necessarily a good thing that Dean had gone for these and not the stronger Percocet they had from Dean's set of severely fractured ribs (taunting a kobold is never a good idea).

Knowing Dean, it was just as possible that he took the lower strength medication so he would seem normal to Sam. Percocet laid them both out pretty good. Standing next to his brother's bedside, Sam weighed feeling Dean's forehead or thrusting the digital thermometer into Dean's mouth, but he knew his brother needed sleep badly. If things were still looking bad when Dean had caught up on some rest, he'd sit him down and talk seriously about going to see a doctor. He knew he was hovering and he knew part of that hovering was a direct guilty reaction to hanging out with Ruby.

Sam grabbed the room key and stepped outside the door of the room, letting his back lean against the dirty exterior of the motel. "Hey, Bobby? Just wanted to fill you in."

"Hey, kid. What's the news on our stubborn friend? You aren't calling for the details on that job, now are ya?"

"No, sir. Dean's asleep right now. After I talked to you he came out of the gas stop bathroom looking like roadkill. I yelled at him _just_ a little." Sam moved the phone further away from his ear as Bobby busted up laughing at the prospect of Sam giving Dean an ass-reaming for his own good. "Anyway, he's medicated and sleeping, so I guess we'll see how much of this is from normal exhaustion, how sick he actually is."

"Well, what's he medicating for, Sam?" Bobby posed the obvious question.

"Laundry list. Could be flu. I know he's in pain, but he won't say where, and I'm not about to go poke the man until he flinches." _For now at least_. "Feverish looking before, but, I got some aspirin in him and I think he looks a little better. Hey Bobby, call tomorrow - give _him_ the third degree. Just, do me a favor, don't mention any jobs yet."

Bobby was concerned, but not nearly so much now that he knew the boys were off the road, at least for the day. Sam seemed to have things well in hand. "Will do. You need anything, you call me."

"Thanks."

Sam stole in the motel room stealthily and re-checked all the doors and windows. Satisfied they were secure, he lay himself down on the bed opposite Dean and let his own eyes close.

**:::**

* * *

**A/N2:** Yes, the chapter title is a reference to a Julia Roberts movie.

~Reviews Appreciated~


	4. Major Major Major Major

**A/N:** This is the last chapter beta'd by wave obscura. She is officially relieved of duty after this. Thank you for your eagle eyes and insight!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Major Major Major Major  
**

:::

A soldier in dress uniform strapped to a table, gutted. Dean gazed down at his blood-slicked hand in horror. He was dripping gore all the way up to his elbow.

_"No, no please…don't hurt me, don't, please, don't! I'll give it back, I'll give it all back…just please no more pain. Oh god, oh god, oh god!"_

The echo was still in his head as Dean opened one eye and gazed blearily around the room. Shame and bile were caught in his throat. He didn't remember the man in his dream, not that he could remember them all. They had all wanted to give it back, whatever they had made a deal for, whatever they had gained from witchcraft or sold their souls for, whatever they may have gained from being despicable people. It never took long for any of the lost souls to try to rescind their bargains, to back-peddle on their lives. Dean had ignored them and pressed onward making them scream. The highs and lows of shrieks and pitiful moans were ringing in his ears and he could swear he still felt the oppressive heat. It took a few minutes for him to realize that he felt aflame in reality and was sweating buckets.

"Ohh gross," Dean murmured. There was nothing worse than motel quilts and sheets when it came to getting overheated. They stuck to you in ways that had you praying that the maids took their jobs seriously.

He flicked his other eye over to Sam, who was sleeping. This made him feel not quite so bad, knowing his brother needed the sleep too. Somehow his own sleep had left him feeling decidedly worse than before. Dean sat up slowly, his head swimming like a poor kid at the community pool. He grabbed the bottle of now flat ginger-ale from the table, the aspirin. His throat was parched. _Okay,_

_ water, shower, shave, and you'll start to feel human again._

He stood shakily, his legs immediately giving out, as he came down hard on the mattress.

"Well, that's just friggin' fantastic." He would have tried to keep his volume down so he wouldn't wake Sam up, but the way his voice was sounding, gravelly and low, he doubted his brother would have heard him if he wanted to scream from the rooftops.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the rest of the ginger ale, figuring fluids and sugar were probably good ideas, even though he thought it tasted like ass, even more disgusting now that it was lukewarm and un-carbonated. He rolled his eyes at his snoozing brother. "Really, Sammy, Canada Dry _caffeine-free_ ginger ale?" Dean whispered. "At least get me a Mr. Pibb next time."

Using the nightstand for balance, he got up slowly, happy that he managed to stay erect this time, and made his way toward the bathroom. And then, a simple act – he yawned. And pain, like someone was trying to overinflate his lung until it exploded, caught him by surprise and caused a coughing fit that he barely managed to hold in until he was safely in the bathroom, his hand reaching out to turn the shower on to cover the sound. It was no longer that non-productive dry rattle – it had become wet, thick, and phlegmy. He imagined his chest looking like a lava lamp, unshakeable globules of gunk that could not be removed. White-knuckling the counter-top to stay standing, his whole body contorted as air tried to get down his pipes. And that violent bark just kept coming, until he found himself throwing up ginger ale in the ceramic sink, not even able to take the half step to the toilet in time, all his muscles straining to help his lungs expand. He swallowed phlegm and willed himself not to vomit again.

Finally over, his head aching, his hands shaking, Dean sat on the edge of the toilet, a whistling wheeze sounding in and out.

"Goddamn it." He choked out.

**:::**

**:::**

Sam woke up as Dean was coming out of the shower. Sam thought he looked better, but maybe it was just that he looked cleaner. He did look a bit more well-rested, although still very pale, the freckles standing out on his face.

"You feelin' better, man?"

Dean merely nodded; he was controlling each breath, trying not to let that whistle come back. "Yeah. Bathroom's all yours."

Sam pulled a face, coming to grips with the foul after-sleep taste that was coating his tongue. "Gonna brush my teeth. Why don't you decide what you want for dinner, and we'll figure out what's still open." Sam crossed the room, gathering up his clothes.

"Sounds like a plan." Dean gave a nod before sitting heavily on the bed once Sam closed the bathroom door.

A few moments later Sam poked his head out the door, "Dude, did you puke in the sink?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did, Sam. Glad you noticed. You know why? Because ginger ale tastes like ass."

Sam chuckled, but that glimmer of concern was back in his eyes as they scanned Dean more intensely. In the few moments since Sam had been improving his dental hygiene, Dean's pallor had regained the sickly sheen of sweat that had caused such apprehension earlier in the day.

"So, you make a decision about food?" Sam asked, gauging his brother's response carefully as he finished getting dressed. He took note that about an inch more of the Tussin was gone.

"One horse town. That diner's going to be the only thing open."

About ten minutes later they were seated at the same booth they were earlier in the day. It didn't take long for the argument to start after their meals came. Dean was picking at his food just like earlier.

"Dude, you're sick."

"I'm fine, Sam, lay off."

"You look terrible, I mean, really…"

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, Sasquatch." Even as Dean was trying to dodge the issue, though – he was wrinkling his nose in distaste at the greasy cuisine he usually devoured.

"Look, all I'm suggesting is that we don't waste the motel tonight. It's already paid for." Sam wanted to add, "_if you look better tomorrow we can leave_," but somehow he didn't think it was going to help anything, so he left his argument as is.

Dean took a long, slow sip of Coke. On the one hand, there was the temptation to argue with Sam for the sake of pulling rank. More important than that was the desperate need to hunt – to keep in motion and distracted. On the other hand, it made no sense to waste the room. It wasn't like they had a job lined up or anything.

"Did Bobby have anything to say, a job for us, any omens?"

Sam's eyes went shifty. "Nothing new." There was a stab of guilt at adding yet another lie to the pile of deceit Sam had been cultivating lately. Suddenly paranoid, he hoped to high heaven that Dean hadn't called Bobby and found out there was a job.

_No, such luck, apparently_, Sam thought. Dean was turning purple with anger.

Or maybe it wasn't anger.

Dean's lungs picked that moment to rebel against the controlled measured breaths he had been taking while praying that a hearty swig of cough syrup was all he needed. All the "I'm fine, Sammy's" in the world couldn't help at this point; the point where he was spluttering, that viscous hack convulsing his whole body forward until he was almost hitting his head on the table, the point where Sam jumped up and crouched down next to him, the point where even the waitress came over and asked Sam if Dean was choking. Dean just held his hand up, trying to send out the universal message – "I'm fine, back off." The waitress, she understood. Sam, not so much.

It took a moment to catch his breath. "Wrong pipe," he rasped.

"Wrong pipe, nothing, Dean, you sound like one of Bobby's old junkpiles right now."

"Would you sit down, Nurse Betty?"

"Why do you always friggin' do this?" Sam slammed his palm on the table, the force up-ending the salt shaker. "No one is going to think less of you if you're sick."

"Because I want to work, Sam. Aren't you always saying, routine will get my mind off…things?"

"Things" lately had come to become the word for Hell, Sam lying about using his powers, Alastair finding his way topside, and a whole host of other things Dean would really rather not name.

"Working is out of the question if you can't even breathe, man." Sam looked at his brother pointedly, hearing the wheeze that supported his argument perfectly.

"I don't know about that, Sam. I stopped breathing for four months and I've been working just fine," Dean quipped before giving in to another round of hacking, the sound of whatever was churning in his lungs resembling a lawnmower being primed.

Sam just stared at Dean, not appreciating the morbid humor at all, especially now.

"Are you going to finish your meal?" Sam asked quietly.

"Naw, m'good." Dean ignored his breathlessness while eyeing his brother carefully, knowing from past experience, quiet was not a good thing.

"Are you going to get pie?"

"We have some back at the room, right?"

There was a moment of silence where Sam simply stared at Dean. "Since _when_ is there too much pie in the world?"

"There isn't, Sammy. Stop blaspheming or I'll have Cas come kick your ass."

"Then let's go." It was really all Sam could say.

The boys stood up and Dean flicked some bills on the table, adding in a very nice tip as he winked at the waitress. He figured she got all worked up thinking a patron was choking, she deserved some money. Sam stayed silent as they walked out and Dean was touching the seatbacks of all the booths to help his wavery legs. Sam stayed silent as Dean began shivering in the night air on what was a very mild evening. The short ride back to the motel was _plagued_ in silence, except the occasional dying-accordion noise from Dean's chest.

Dean kept looking sideways at Sam, expecting a lecture to burst forth at any moment. The younger Winchester strode purposefully into the room, looking like he was cleaning up or performing a rescue search through all their bags. It was the same anger-infused slamming of objects as before, and didn't really need an end result in mind to happen. Dean purposefully ignored his brother and trudged into the bathroom. His entire body felt like it was rapidly becoming a liability. He turned the sink tap on and produced the bottle of pain meds out of his pocket. To his surprise, he didn't hear the familiar clacking of pills. Instead, there was a scrap of paper inside.

'If nothing is wrong, then you don't need these, do you?' scrawled Sam's familiar chicken scratch.

"Are you friggin' serious?" Dean muttered under his wheezing breath. This was Sam's version of Catch 22 and Dean knew it. He was found out either way. Either he admitted something was wrong to get some relief, or he suffered through it. Neither prospect proposed a fun evening of chuckles. Was he stubborn enough to keep his trap shut, though? Absolutely.

Dean splashed some water on his face to remove some the clamminess, the cold water feeling amazing on his face, even though the rest of his body, especially his hands, seemed to be made from blocks of ice. He turned the hot water tap and let his fingers thaw for a moment. Jaw set resolutely, he walked back out into the room, grabbed the remote and flung himself on the bed, crooking his arm behind his head.

"You gonna take your jacket off?" Sam raised his eyebrow.

Dean stared at Sam doggedly and pulled it off without a word, immediately regretting it. He wanted to ask Sam to turn down the AC, but he knew it wasn't on. He settled against the headboard, trying to stifle the tremors that aftershocked through this body, his arms across chest for warmth.

_Well, this is gonna be a fun night._

**:::**

**:::**_  
_

_

* * *

_Oh, stubborn brothers. When will you learn?

~Reviews Appreciated~


	5. He Put Da Lime In Da Coconut

**A/N:** Any mistakes, all on me. Thank you for all the reviews! I love hearing what you think. It makes my day.

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Chapter 5

He Put Da Lime In Da Coconut

Sam's lips twitched. Dean had been sitting there for two hours, shivering, refusing to get under his blankets simply because, "He was fine." He was vaguely amused by Dean's stubbornness, but frustrated and feeling a tad guilty. Sam was pushing buttons to try and get some kind of result and he knew it, but – still, this was his brother, who was clearly ill. He knew how stubborn Dean could be, so he had some idea that this power struggle might be the outcome. Even so, the boys simply focused on the TV and an hour more had Sam's eyes closing against his will.

Sam _thought_ he had a good handle on feeling guilty, but then there was a sound that made him bolt upright. There was a moan or a whimper or an "oh god" which had broken from Dean's lips, possibly a combination of all three. Sam jumped up to face his brother and was shocked when he was confronted with the pasty, greying skin of a man who looked like he should be unconscious.

"Dean?! Dean. Shit…" In an instant Sam was holding Dean's head in his heads, trying to get him to open his eyes all the way. It was the first time he had managed to touch him that Dean couldn't pull away, and his brother was soaked and on fire. "C'mon, man."

Dean was going to reply, to tell his brother to get his hands off him, to make a wisecrack to ease all this damnable tension – but the pain was unreal. Leaning forward, he bent himself in half on the bed, one hand pushing into his chest, as if trying to push air in.

Panic crawled up into Sam's throat, mingling with the self-reproach he was already choking on. His brother was in pain because of him right now, because he just _had_ to be right, _had_ to prove a point. Dean coughed and rasped, while Sam finally took in the full measure of what was going on. It sounded _wrong_. This wasn't some smear-your-snot-on-your-sleeves kind of cold. This wasn't a you're-over-doing-it-take-a-couple-aspirin-and-put-your-feet-up-for-a-few-days kind of illness. Hell, at this point Sam wasn't even sure this was an I'll-drag-your-ass-to-the-docs-tomorrow-because-you've-obviously-been-hiding-being-stupidly-sick kind of thing, which was more what he had been banking on.

Dean kept his eyes closed as his body gave him a moment's peace. He felt like his lungs were stuffed with cotton candy and he was trying to breathe through it.

"Sam?" Dean barely had the air to get the whisper out, feeling the room begin to slip away, stars entering the corner of his vision.

"What, dude…I'm right here." Sam's heart began to beat even faster as he saw his brother's lips beginning to turn an unsettling shade of purpley-grey.

"Goddamn, dude, this kinda twinges." The older Winchester's voice was a trembling laugh and tears of pain he couldn't control were glinting in his eyes. And still, _still_ the corner of his lip trembled upward, fighting to shrug this all off with a grin.

"Your chest, Dean?" Sam kept his hands on Dean's face, trying to make eye contact, but Dean was cringing away, panting, his eyes weren't focusing and Sam wasn't able to get an answer. It didn't really matter, though, it was a stupid question. A person doesn't clutch their chest when their knee hurts.

"Dean, we gotta call 911."

Sam was almost impressed that even in his brother's current condition there was no lacking in the vehemence of his answer. Dean shook his head vigorously and moved as if to get off the bed, but he was easily pushed back against the pillows.

Spinning irrationally through Sam's mind was the fact that Dean's heart, although now healed several times over, had already had one major heart attack. Sam's eyes scanned the room hurriedly for his cell phone.

"You're not leaving me a lot of options here, man. Your lips are blue. You're having _chest pain_. You are the definition of why the number was created."

Dean glared at his brother and began making a more concentrated effort to breathe slowly. There were very recent memories of the last few times he had been fully hospitalized, and he'd been a dead man walking. He wasn't ever going back if he could help it, especially with the knowledge that Reapers were doing full-time tours of duty in those places. Yeah, it was just their job, but it was still creepy.

After a few slow and deliberate breaths, Dean began to regain some of his color. "C'mon, I'm not that easy to define."

Sam was apparently set on ignoring his joke, so Dean continued, "Meds. Sleep. Doc tomorrow…..I promise."

Sam gazed doubtfully. A local clinic would be better than the ER – no threat of admission – just swoop in, get some meds, and hole up for a few days. "If we do this you're going to have to do what I say."

"Fine, fine….just…no hospital."

Sam frowned as Dean clung onto his shirt, stretching out the neckline as his clammy hand fisted around the soft cotton. This was as close to Dean got as begging for something he wanted. After...well, after _Hell_, Sam had been looking for any way he could make things better for his brother. If Dean had begged for the moon, Sam would probably try to get it. He'd fail, but he'd try. How can you not acquiesce to the man who traded his life for yours?

"If you get worse tonight, you're going, end of story."

Sam stood up from his crouch, his knees complaining loudly and retrieved the hidden prescription pain meds from the bottom of his backpack. Then he thought better of it and grabbed the Percocet from the first aid kit instead. He handed Dean one round tablet, grabbing his own bottle of water from the nightstand and offering it.

"No arguments, just take it." Sam sighed. Even as he was feeling currently, Dean took the medicine grudgingly. It was one thing, Sam guessed, to be using medication to hide pain from your brother. It was completely another to be forced to acknowledge how bad it was. "You alright for a minute?"

Dean nodded, but looked at his brother questioningly.

"Just making a phone call, be right back."

Dean immediately shouted, "Hey!" clearly intending to yell at Sam, thinking he was going to call 911 behind his back. The 'hey' was all he got out before his lungs seized up on him again.

"Hey! Dean, _Dean_…just calling Bobby, calm down! In and out, man. Breathe."

As soon as his breathing was back in its regular irregular rhythm again, he gave Sam a look that clearly said _'It would have been nice if you had mentioned that before I freaked out.'_

"Yeah, I know, I know." Sam chuckled.

**:::**

**:::**

Outside the door, Sam let his calm demeanor slip, frantically pushing the buttons on his phone, even though he had Robert Singer on speed-dial.

"Sam? What's wrong?" It was awful late for a social call, the older hunter knew.

"He's really sick, Bobby. Like _really_ sick, and being all skittish about the hospital – and –"

"Whoa, Sam, calm down, tell me what's going on, nice and factual…like this was a job."

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay, so…fever, I don't know how high yet - chills. It is more the cough I'm worried about, Bobby. It gets so he's turning blue. And he's been sneaking the meds reserved for gunshots, so I know it hurts him, to the point where even he admitted it hurts. But…" Sam couldn't complete the sentence and stared at the ground in shame.

Dean had been sneaking meds that he normally would never take, even when he had need of them. Sneaking them – and Sam hadn't even noticed until today – so how long was Dean feeling sick? It was always his style to refuse, to say that Sam needed them more. Which meant this was a lot worse than anything Sam was prepared to deal with; which meant that simply manipulating Dean into admitting he was sick wasn't enough. Sam felt the twist of guilt in his stomach, knowing that he had been wasting time when he should have been dragging Dean's ass to a doctor a week ago.

"Okay, I'll be there in the morning. Latest 10am, I need to pick a few things up."

"Ten? Bobby, where are you?" Obviously, Bobby wasn't hanging at home in South Dakota if he could make it to Pennsylvania by morning.

"Outside Lafayette, Indiana." Before Sam even said a word about Bobby leaving a hunt unfinished, he immediately interjected. "Just interviews, Sam – I would've been heading back towards you two anyway."

Sometimes it caught Sam by surprise when Bobby knew him nearly as well as Dean did. And he did feel genuinely bad about interrupting Bobby – especially if he was on a job. He'd willingly chance the imposition, however, if it meant helping Dean.

"Keep his fever down. If it is above 103, punch him out if you have to – just get him to the hospital. And get him a strong cup of coffee."

Sam rubbed his hand across his forehead trying to ease the headache brewing there. "Coffee, Bobby? If I can't convince him to go the ER, shouldn't we just let him sleep?"

"The caffeine will help open up his lungs a bit." Bobby explained. "Oh, and keep a lid on the pain meds, they might hurt more than help."

"Shit! I just gave him some!"

"Just keep an eye on him then, for at least four hours. If he looks worse, haul his ass in."

"Bobby-"

"-He'll be okay, Sam," the elder hunter interrupted with a measured calm voice.

"Thanks, Bobby. Just…thanks. I'll text you directions?"

"Unless you'd _prefer_ I scry for ya. Call if anything changes."

Bobby hung up the phone and let out a breath. "Damnit, Dean."

**:::**

**:::**

Sam came back about fifteen minutes later balancing two coffees and a large bag of ice. He initially had been very unwilling to leave Dean alone and had threatened to manhandle him into the car. The argument had gone around in circles until Sam realized that Dean was being honest when he said he felt like he was breathing better, able to take deeper breaths now that the sharpness of the pain in his side had eased. Finally, they made the agreement that Sam would leave Dean at the motel so long as they kept texting each other. Proof of life, Sam had called it. Proof of how obnoxious his younger brother could be was more Dean's line of thinking. And if Dean hadn't pulled the exact same thing when Sam had been sick or injured, maybe he would have had a leg to stand on.

As was the norm in many of the smaller towns they worked, the entire town closed up shop by nine o'clock a night. Sam ended up having to go back to the mini-mart to get the coffee and was quite anxious by the time he got back. Texts were proof Dean was healthy enough to text, not exactly a polygraph. His hands full, Sam managed to turn the knob and then bump the door open the rest of the way with his shoulder. His older brother was in the same spot he had left him, leaning back against his pillows, still ashen and sweaty, but…smiling. It was very odd.

"Heeeey, Sammy."

"…Dean?" The first thing that went through Sam's mind was that the fever must be raging out of control and on its way to causing delirium. Putting down the cups of coffee carefully, Sam crouched by his brother's bedside and cautiously laid a hand on him. He didn't feel any warmer than before that Sam could tell. It was only then that he noticed that about half the cough medicine was gone. And then Sam remembered – the Percocet too. "You're pretty high aren't ya, man?"

That stupid silly smile plastered on Dean's face was Sam's answer.

All at once, Sam began laughing , relief breaking over him.

"Whusso funny, Sammy? Haha, Sammy. Your name is _awesome_."

"Sure, man. Whatever you say." Sam grinned and shook his head. On the bright side, a spacey Dean was going to be a lot more docile and easier to take care of. "Okay, dude, time to sit up. Temp first."

Even in the state he was in, Dean rolled his eyes, but he let Sam stick the thermometer under his tongue.

"Now, can you shut up for a few minutes so we can get an accurate reading?"

Dean simply made a noise that sounded like *_pisshhh!_* You would have thought that meant, 'of course a full grown adult can keep his trap shut for less than two minutes.' Still, every few moments Sam found himself punching Dean in the leg to stop him from muttering words around the thermometer.

So much for docile.

"102.2, Dean. 102.2 _with_ aspirin and Tylenol in your system. Good job at letting yourself get so sick. I really appreciate it." The biting sarcasm escaped Sam's lips before he even realized it was there. "I'm sorry, dude. I know you didn't ask for this. I just wish you'd take better care of yourself."

Sam handed Dean one of the cups of coffee and sat next to him. "Drink a bit of this and then some cold water, okay?"

"Coffee, Sam?! And _I'm_ the one who's high? It is past… late o'clock."

"Bobby said it would help."

Dean simply made a face to say, _'Ah, of course_.'

Sam strolled into the bathroom, toting the plastic bag of ice along with him.

Deans rasping voice rounded around the door jamb, the sound effects of his breathing providing an awful accompaniment. "Sam…?" _*hack*_

"Yeah?"

"You didn't," _*wheeze*_ "tell Bobby it was serious or nothing, did you?"

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true." Sam re-entered the room and pointedly ignored the seething glare Dean tried to give him.

"Well, that's just friggin' awesome. When'll he be here, then?"

"In the morning."

Dean growled, but all it really managed to do was clear his throat a little.

"Get some sleep, man. Maybe you'll be feeling well enough to intimidate me in the morning." Sam busied himself packing ice into the plastic freezer bags they used for evidence and began stashing them around Dean's body. Maybe he was being pre-emptive (okay, he _knew_ he was), but he really didn't want to chance Dean's fever spiking up past the finish line that Bobby had set.

"You just gave me coffee. Maybe you should've thought of sleep before that – huh genius? Also, the ice makes it kinda hard. "

Sam chuckled to himself. The next time he looked over, his brother was sound asleep.

* * *

So, for those of you that wanted more Bobby, you're in luck. He'll be there in the flesh next chapter.


	6. Cookie Crisp

**A/N:** Consider them disclaimed! If they want to claim me, though - I'm open to that.

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Chapter 6

Cookie Crisp

It was an oldie, but a goodie. Alastair had somehow known, had always known, how to get inside someone's head to mix half-truths and personal history with torture. It was what made him so goddamn good at his job.

There had been a job in New Mexico, a solo-gig and Dean had made the critical mistake of not packing extra water for the Impala's radiator. The car overheated and Dean was stranded with a tiny pueblo hut for shelter – the one time he'd ever had to utilize the knowledge of converting piss to drinking water. He had a pretty undeniable case of heat stroke by the time someone had come along. Alastair took it - the orange haze, the smell of clay and the expectation of tumbleweeds, and had shoved him in an adobe oven. Trapped him, baked him like cookies. He was back there now, and although he had memories of his knuckles banging on splintered pine, the rushing suffocation of grave dirt, his hands were still meeting with unyielding stone, his fingernails breaking off. Eyes closed tightly shut, he remembered the pain of his eyeballs being exposed to the heat, of tear ducts drying out in moments, the horrible realization that any humidity you felt was from your own body's moisture – becoming like those goddamn awful banana chips his dad had always insisted on packing.

A sharp knock sounded, out of place for his current predicament. Adobe absorbed sound; this was a hollow rapping on thick metal. He was granted the mysterious knowledge that comes to you in a dream: it was a door, the dehydrated corpse of a man in fatigues on the other side.

The image woke Dean with a start, but it took him a moment before he allowed his eyelids to peel apart.

_Not on fire – check_.

The knocking continued, bringing him further out of the nightmare. His head spun dizzily as he sat up much too quickly. Sam wasn't there, his bed made already.

"Sam, you forget your key?" Dean's voice sounded like a violin being bowed with a saw blade, and he doubted that his brother had heard him.

The knock became more insistent and Dean groaned. "Keep it together, dude, you need to chill!" His exclamation was punctuated by the tortuous sneaker-in-a-washing-machine cough which had ended up waking him up a good portion of the night, keeping Sam up as well. He forced himself into a standing position, his stomach giving a belch of protest to remind him that his _entire_ body was ready to rebel against whatever it was he wanted to do. Considering how he felt currently, it wasn't like he needed the reminder.

He was nearly at the door when Dean heard a voice, a voice which did not belong to his brother, informing Dean that he had about thirty seconds to open the door or it was going to be broken down. Dean got to the door and opened it just in time for Bobby to be using his shoulder as a battering ram, nearly getting Dean a good crack to the jaw. Instead, Bobby just ran into the room, not being able to stop his momentum until he was several feet inside. When the older man halted to a short stop and turned around, he gave a snort of derision. "Damnit, Dean, you look like crap."

"Yeah, well, nice to see you too, sunshine."

"Where's Sam?"

Dean poked his head out into the chill autumn morning. It appeared the Indian Summer they had going for them had finally ceased altogether. "Car's not here. Gimme a sec." Dean went to go grab his cell off of the nightstand to call Sam, but there was a note that his phone was weighing down.

'_Gone to get breakfast from the diner. Be right back. Call if you need anything. Leave this room and I will kick your ass.'_

"He's at the diner, Bobby. It isn't far." Dean hugged an arm across his chest, bracing his ribs against the spikes of pain that arose on every inhale.

Bobby simply nodded, watching Dean carefully. "You want to tell me what's going on with you, son?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "C'mon, I'm just run down."

"Yeah, that's why you sound worse than some of my junkpiles. Go sit down."

Dean just stood there for a moment. "Junkpile…what?" It sounded familiar, déjà vu pulling at him until he remembered; Sam had said the same thing to him yesterday. "Huh, you two girls are spending entirely too much time together. No more slumber parties."

Not following the line of thought, Bobby quirked an eyebrow at Dean. "Just sit your ass down."

Dean shrugged and did as he was told, not because he felt some keen urge to obey, but he couldn't really think of a good reason to stay standing, his knees getting that slightly Gumby-feel right before they usually would buckle.

"Not that I don't appreciate the thought, you coming all this way, but…" Dean paused to catch his breath, ignoring the hairy eyeball his father figure was giving him. "Unless you're going to beat the germs out of me, I don't see what you're gonna be able to do."

"I got stuff in the car. Figured Sam'd help me haul it in."

"I could –"

"You can keep your backside on that bed, is what you can do." Bobby snapped sharply. Bobby only gave attitude, _real_ attitude, when he thought Dean was messing up big time, making life-destroying mistakes. Dean remembered the conversation Sam had about Dean not caring enough to stick around. He also remembered the empty bottles strewn around Bobby's house when he first got out of Hell.

"…you know- " Dean was going to say something to Bobby about how he really did want to be on the planet, about how Bobby and Sam shouldn't worry so much, about how he wasn't quite so screwed in the head that he wanted to get personal with death yet _another_ time, but then Sam walked back in, breakfast in hand.

_Saved by Sasquatch._

Sam looked back and forth between his sickly brother and Bobby, sensing the awkward moment in the room. "Hey, Bobby, thanks for coming. You two playing nice?"

"We're just peachy." Dean said, a wide grin crossing his face. He was quite relieved to be bailed out of a moment that had the potential to become touchy-feely.

"Yeah…" Bobby said. "I was just telling our mutual idjit here that I had some stuff in the car."

"And I said –" Dean chimed in, but Sam immediately cut him off.

"Lemme guess! You told him that you'd help him bring it in, and he – having common sense – would have told you no. And the wheel turns on your cycle of denial and self-abuse…" Sam chuckled a little maniacally and turned to Bobby. "You see what I have to put up with?"

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that while Sam was joking on the surface, he was rapidly getting to the point where he wasn't going to be able to reign in his frustration anymore.

"So, why don't we go get the stuff?" Bobby offered a retreat, gesturing toward the door.

Sam pulled out his cell and glanced at the clock. "Sure, yeah, we have time."

Both Bobby and Dean gazed at Sam in confusion.

"Time?" Bobby asked.

"We got a job?" Dean's face lit up with hope, at which Sam promptly rolled his eyes.

"No, not a job. _You_ have a doctor's appointment."

Dean's jaw dropped. "You're serious?"

Before Dean could even put up a proper protest Sam immediately went into his short, well-rehearsed speech. "Don't even argue, man. You promised me last night you'd go, and you saying that was the _only _reason I didn't drag your ass to the ER last night. You can't take it back now. You're going."

Dean stared at Sam with a stony expression. "Where?"

"Local clinic." Sam turned his back on Dean's expression, concentrating intently on putting breakfast on the small dinette table. "You should eat something."

Dean ignored him. "When?"

"An hour. They are about twenty minutes away, though."

"So much for local." Dean grumbled. Twenty minutes wasn't far, but damnit – he wanted to grumble about something.

"It handles three towns, so…relatively." Sam replied, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

Dean turned and walked away from the two men, heading toward the bathroom. Sam noticed for the first time that Dean was holding himself the way he does when fuglies have beaten the crap out of his back, his shoulders slouched forward, the hand that wasn't bracing his ribs reaching back to touch the curve of his back every now and again.

"Where are you going? I don't think the bathroom windows are large enough to escape through." Sam tried to joke.

"I'm gonna go take a shower, or do I need an appointment for that too?" Dean didn't even turn around as he scooped up a handful of clean clothes – not that Sam and Bobby needed to see his face to get a feel for the annoyance etched on it.

"Good idea." Bobby grinned wryly. "Ya wouldn't want the doc to think that the stink is a symptom."

Dean snorted and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Sam and Bobby headed out to the motel parking lot where the older hunter's truck was waiting. In the back there were two very large red toolboxes and a couple of thick medical texts.

"All this?" Sam asked.

"Yep." Bobby grunted, hefting one of the toolboxes over the side of the flatbed and putting it in Sam's waiting hands. "Though, I'm not sure how much good it'll do him."

"What? Why not?" Sam's brow immediately furrowed.

"That cough of his is deeper than just some chest cold. We _really_ need to know what we're dealing with –and only an x-ray and trained ears can do that, or else I'm just tossing pills in the dark here. Plus, you said he's been hiding it – so whatever is going on with him has probably sunk its teeth in pretty good."

Sam flinched inwardly. He knew Bobby wasn't implying anything, but the thought still came that if he had been more on top of the situation, things might not have gotten this bad.

Bobby saw the downtrodden look of self-loathing Sam's entire posture was suddenly screaming. "Ain't the first time he's done this, Sam. Won't be the last."

"We're still going to do everything we can." Sam declared firmly.

"'Course we are. That's not even a question."

Sam did not like the sound of this conversation at all. It reminded him of the many conversations that occurred before Dean went to Hell: that everything was going to be fine, that they were going to do everything in their power to stop it… And, granted, having demonic dogs on your ass is a tad more ominous than getting sick, but Sam felt entitled to worry. The memory of gently placing his brother's cold body in a hand-built coffin was still fresh in his mind.

Bobby hefted the other toolbox over the side and the two men headed back into the motel room. They immediately stopped short, hearing Dean's rib-breaking hack bouncing off of the walls, the tile in the bathroom only serving to make it echo louder. Bobby busied himself looking through the many small compartments of the toolboxes while Sam perched on the end of Dean's bed, both of them waiting for the painful choking to stop. Minutes later, it finally happened. There was a break in the ragged coughs and barely audible behind the closed door was wheezing lacing every irregular breath.

"Dude, you alright?" Sam called.

There was no response.

Sam threw Bobby a look and stood up, heading over to the bathroom door.

"If you don't answer, I'm gonna come in."

Again, the only response was the staggered wheezing.

"Alright, man, if you're naked – cover up." Sam gave a warning knock on the door as he slowly pushed it open. He found his brother sitting on the floor, mostly dressed after having showered – his new clothes damp from the mix of feverish sweat and shower steam. A wad of toilet paper made disgusting by bloody phlegm was clutched tightly in his hand. His back was leaning against the tub, his purplish lips standing out against his pallid complexion. Dean gazed up at the gigantic form looming over him blearily, the crooked smile sending a message, _'What do ya want a freakin' medal? So what…I'm sick.' _

Sam tried to reign in the concern he felt that was edging more toward frustration and anger. Reading the look on his brother's face, he said. "Dude, you're an ass." Then he called for Bobby.

Bobby stood in the doorway of the cramped bathroom, not even attempting to fit a third person inside. He craned his neck over Sam's lanky body and got a good look at Dean. He just walked away, shaking his head. Sam was surprised, until Bobby reappeared with a stethoscope and a small canister of oxygen. At which point, Sam was even more surprised. He knew Bobby knew how to patch up quite the array of wounds and was a whiz at setting bones, but this was a little more in depth than he expected. "When did you get medical training?"

"Friend of mine is a paramedic, taught me a couple things. Budge up, Sam." Bobby indicated he wanted Sam out of the way with a small nudge. In the cramped bathroom, it was like they were doing a tango, each trying to get around the other, until Sam was finally situated in the doorway and Bobby was kneeling down next to Dean.

The older hunter's callused fingers threaded an oxygen mask around Dean's face, securing it over his nose and mouth. Bobby put the stethoscope in his ears and slipped the other end under Dean's shirt to get a listen. Dean took a sharp wheezing inhale, "That thing is cold, damnit!"

"Awww, so sorry I didn't warm it up for you, _Princess_. But you'll get a lollipop when I'm through. Now quiet down so I can hear." Bobby groused, which apparently was enough to get Dean to submit.

This whole thing was going rapidly out of control. Instead of being able to suck up being sick for a few days with no one the wiser, it had turned into a few weeks of misery and both Sam and Bobby worried and fussing over him. Dean's brain was curling up with the idea that maybe there was a lesson here about ignoring illness and being more open, but his brain was also sick and tired and oxygen-deprived, so it decided to not date the idea, to just be friends.

Bobby looked up at Sam and then directly at Dean, not mincing his words. "He needs to go to a hospital."

"No!" Dean said, regaining some of his vigor with oxygen being stuffed into him. "No friggin' way."

"Why, Bobby?" Sam asked, already knowing his brother was sick enough to warrant a trip to the ER, but wondering if there was something specific that made their friend come to that conclusion. And maybe Bobby saying it aloud would convince Dean.

Bobby removed the stethoscope from his ears with a sigh. "'Cause coughing up blood ain't exactly the sniffles. I don't think that's something a local clinic doctor is going to have a firm handle on. They're gonna want to send him to the hospital anyway. Might as well skip the middle man."

"No, but I already have the appointment, so I might as well go," Dean interjected, clearly ready to dig his heels in on the issue.

Sam looked between Bobby and his brother. Dean was looking better with the oxygen, already trying to get himself off of the floor. Compromise with a side of manipulation was the order of the day.

"Right, we have the doctor's appointment," Sam said, looking carefully at Bobby who looked damn ready to voice his objections, "And then whatever the doc says, whatever his advice is, we're going to follow it, right?"

Dean wasn't even listening at this point. "Yeah, sure, of course."

"So, if the doc tells you to go to the hospital, you're going, no arguments."

Dean gazed his brother warily, not happy about the predicament he suddenly found himself in. But Sam looked exhausted, worn thin, and just that was enough to get him to agree. "If he says that, and _only_ if – I'll go."

"Really?" Sam asked, unable to hold back the relief. He practically sagged against the wall.

"Well, you don't have to throw a parade or nothin'." Dean grumbled.

"Better haul out if we're going to get there on time." Bobby frowned. "Never ask me to babysit your kids, Sam. They'll be spoiled rotten."

..

..

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~Reviews Appreciated~


	7. Once Was a Man Named Michael Finnegan

**A/N:** Posting 7 and 8 together, because we're getting closer to answers of what's going on with Dean and closer to where this turns into a case-fic. Thank you so much for all the reviews!

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**Chapter 7**

**There Once Was a Man Named Michael Finnegan**

The three men loaded into the Impala, Sam driving – as if there were no question about it. That bothered Dean, that there wasn't even a second thought. He really didn't take to being treated like he was so breakable. Bobby had refused to leave without the oxygen, if not physically on Dean, then in the car. All in all, the mood was pretty tense. Every now and then, Dean would pipe up about how this was a waste of time, how the doctor was going to prescribe some meds that Bobby probably had on him. The rest of the time it was his cough or grating wheeze taking the floor. Whether it was the protestations or the illness which was increasing the foul mood, neither Sam nor Bobby could have said.

When they finally pulled in at the Townville Clinic, Sam was white-knuckling the steering wheel. The building was cheery enough, freshly painted. Sam was grateful – it was one less thing for his brother to criticize as he trudged his way in. You would have thought the sign posted on the door said, 'Free Demon Possession,' not 'Free Flu Shots.'

Bobby sat himself down immediately, picking up an interesting looking guide to the Allegheny Mountains, while he waited for the brothers to check Dean in at reception.

"I can do this myself, Sam. Stop treating me like I'm a friggin' toddler!" Upon ending that exclamation, Dean coughed so hard that he staggered sideways. He would have brained himself on the wall if Sam hadn't grabbed him by the elbow.

"Oh no, man. I'm staying the whole time. I'm not letting you brush this off like nothing. If it is actually nothing, and it's _not_, then you'll have my heartfelt apologies – but you're letting the doctor give you a proper once over." Sam pursed his lips in his 'and that's that' expression.

Dean rolled his eyes in response and knocked on the receptionist's window. In a few minutes a comely thirty-something brunette walked back over to what was probably her desk, giving Dean a look like she had just seen a ghost.

"Are…are you okay?" she asked, concern overtaking her features. "Do you need to sit down?"

Dean turned around to make sure there wasn't someone else behind him. "Me? Yeah, I'm okay."

"Cathy," Sam said, reading the nameplate on her desk, "My brother Dean is here for an appointment. Dean Morris?"

"Yep, I have you down. You're a little early, but I'll see what I can do to get you in as _soon_ as possible." Cathy was not taking her eyes off Dean. He was used to women staring, but not this look like they were going to put their arms out to catch him if he fainted.

"Thank you." Sam said.

They headed back to sit down near Bobby.

"Morris?!" Dean exclaimed in a whisper. "That's a new one."

"The new insurance cards I picked up a few weeks back from the Philly PO Box. Hey, _you're_ supposed to be the movie buff, I figured you'd appreciate it. Clint Eastwood's character in _Escape from Alcatraz _was Frank Morris. I figured since you managed to give the world's worst jail the slip, I'd leave the first name as is." Sam grinned wryly.

"Huh." Dean grunted in appreciation. Maybe his taste was rubbing off on his little brother after all. "Not bad, Sammy."

In hardly three minutes, a dour woman in brightly-colored Scooby Doo scrubs was calling his new, partially-fake name. True to form, Sam stood up with Dean, obviously serious about staying with his brother the whole time.

Dean clenched his teeth. "Dude, if they ask me to turn and cough, you're turning the hell around. Got that?"

"Believe me, that's my natural instinct when _any_ part of you is disrobed."

The perpetually sour-faced lady took Dean's temperature and blood pressure, both of which served to deepen her frown. The only point when she didn't look increasingly unhappy was when she weighed him. She scrawled the various numbers on the piece of paper in front of her, Sam craning his neck to see what she was writing. Obviously annoyed, she looked up sharply at the taller brother demanding, "Just who are you?"

"I'm his brother."

She turned her appraising eye on Dean and said, "If you don't want him here, he doesn't have to be."

Dean glanced up at his brother as he sat himself on the examination table, "Naw, he can stay. He'll only annoy you for the next few minutes. If I toss him, he'll annoy me for the rest of my life."

The woman shrugged. "Your choice. Doctor will be in to see you in a minute." She stalked out, leaving the door open a few inches behind her.

"Thanks." Sam said.

"For what?" Dean asked, perplexed.

"Letting me stay."

"Well, I'm not happy about it, but I'd be doing the same thing if it were you." Now that Dean was off the oxygen for awhile, he was starting to feel that same tired, tight feeling. He wondered if this was how it would feel to drown on dry land.

Sam noticed Dean's jaw tensing again and the little color that he had regained before the trip had disappeared. His initial instinct was worry, of course, but underneath he found himself almost glad – because Dean was going to _look_ sick for the doctor, so it wouldn't matter how fine he said he was.

"I hate sitting on paper, dude…so weird. Feel like a puppy getting housebroken." Dean fidgeted atop his perch on the exam table and massaged a hand against his chest. A knock sounded at the door, a very short, middle-aged man entering the exam room, pulling his patient's chart off of the slot on the wall.

"Mr. Morris?" Steely-blue eyes flicked from the nurse's notes to Dean, who simply gave a slight motion of his hand and nodded his head, trying to stifle a cough.

"I'm Dr. Finnegan. Our receptionist told me you're on death's doorstep. Let's hope she's wrong."

The tiny doctor scooted himself toward Dean on a rolling stool. "So, what seems to be the main problem?"

To even say the words, 'I'm sick' seemed impossible. Dean settled for, "Well, I caught a bug, and my brother's all worried – so he dragged me here."

"You have a good brother then." Dr. Finnegan nodded approvingly at Sam. "So, how long have you been running the fever for?"

"At least a few days. I don't really carry a thermometer in my pocket, doc."

"Ah, I see." The doctor had treated more than his fair share of burly types who were too macho to admit anything related to their health. They usually got dragged in by their wives, though, not siblings. "Shirt off, please?"

Dean blinked. "No dinner first? No serenade?"

"I have a feeling I'm going to learn more from examining you than asking questions and getting half-assed answers. And I _need_ to listen to your lungs and heart, son."

Dean was caught between really liking the doc and wanting to punch him in the face.

Sam nearly chuckled at the doctor catching onto Dean's evasiveness so quickly, feeling a rush of gratitude for a man he'd spent under five minutes with. There was something in the doctor's insistent tone that prickled at Sam's conscience, though, the possibility that strangers were instantly dubbing Dean sick, possibly very ill, and he'd been oblivious. Or worse, had been quite willing to let it slide, because if Dean didn't want to admit he was sick or wanted to keep secrets about Hell, well, Sam had his own secrets right now, too. The more he didn't push for openness from Dean, the less Dean pushed for it from him.

The doctor was nice enough to warm up the end of the stethoscope before he listened to Dean's lungs, front and back. "I said deep breaths, Mr. Morris. Is that the best you can do?"

Dean took as deep a breath he could, causing him obvious pain and an explosive coughing fit which seemed to go on for minutes with no end in sight. The doctor went searching through drawers until he found a small pipe-like machine and deftly set it up, pouring something in it from a small plastic package that had Dean thinking _hey, holy water bullet_. In a couple of seconds, a mist came out of one end of the contraption, the doctor placing the entire thing in Dean's hands and aiming the mouthpiece toward his lips, telling him to breathe in. _Is the doctor giving me a bong? Definitely don't want to punch him anymore._

After breathing regularly looked like more of an option for his patient, the doctor began with the questions again. "So, are you a smoker?"

Dean shook his head. The doctor immediately turned to Sam and said, "I really do need to know."

"No, he doesn't," Sam confirmed.

"Are you a miner or in any profession where you'd be exposed to particles, dust, chemicals?"

"No."

"You're sure. Any demolition work, working in a field where pesticides are sprayed…anything like that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Sam paused. "Well, wait…he is around a lot of fires."

"What do the fires burn?" the doctor asked.

Dean tossed a warning glance at Sam. "I did some work for a crematorium awhile back. So, human remains."

"Doctor, why all these questions?" Sam's brow furrowed deeply.

"Cards on the table, you're very sick, Mr. Morris. What specifically or how bad, I can't know with certainty until we get an x-ray and some cultures done. You're not having good success moving air, and I'm barely hearing any breath sounds on the left side. Some pretty hideous wheezing going on. You're running a fever, your blood pressure is low, your lips are a little cyanotic. We're looking at a hospital admission here."

"Hey, now, doc…it isn't all _that_ bad." Dean scoffed, instantly pooh-poohing the idea of hospitalization.

"Dean," Sam cut in immediately, "we agreed you'd go!"

"Now, now fellas." The doctor held his hand up to cease the family squabble, "I could tell I was going to have trouble getting _you_ to go in. You're just that type." Once again the doctor had to shush Dean from protesting.

"Here's the compromise I can offer you. I have a buddy of mine across the street, he's a chiropractor – has an x-ray in his office. We can have some films developed in a couple of hours, see what we're dealing with before we make any firm decisions on our next step. Give you some solid proof so you'll know you shouldn't write this off. Fair enough?"

Dean was stunned, both at the fact that the hospital _had_ been brought up and that this doctor was being so accommodating. Doctors, in Dean's book, were a lot like angels. It was great that they were out there in the periphery for when you needed them, and if they could help you – good, but in his experience, they were a bunch of dicks. All he could do was nod his head.

"Okay, then. For right now, finish off the nebulizer treatment, should be done in a bit – then you can head out."

"Thank you." Sam said, in his most sincere "this meant the world to me" type voice.

"Sure. I'll see you two back here two hours, then."

As soon as the doctor left the room, it took everything Sam had not come out with a big 'I told you so.' Dean was appreciative of his restraint and settled for saying, "Did you see his teeny, tiny hands. Now a good time for a leprechaun hunt?"

When the brothers headed back out to the waiting room, Bobby immediately stood up, tossing aside the _Ladies' Home Journal_ he had picked up. "What'd he say?"

"X-ray is across the street." Dean grunted.

**:::**

**:::**

Two hours later Bobby was once again ensconced in the waiting room while Sam and Dean were back in the same exam room they had been previously. Dr. Finnegan came back into the room, all business, and clipped up Dean Morris's x-rays to the light-up board.

"Your lungs, my friend, hate you."

"Excuse me?" Dean raised both eyebrows.

"Okay, see all this area?" The doctor began pointing out things on the x-ray. "Normally it is pretty much all black, because your lungs are filled with air, so there isn't supposed to be anything there. Your lungs…all this white stuff here, and here, and the misty white stuff here, that's all infection. See the edges here? Here: pleurisy. This gigantic white space over here: pleural effusion."

"English, please…"

"You need to be in a hospital. You need to be seen by a pulmonologist. You need to have some cultures to make sure that this is just pneumonia. You may need to have the effusion drained."

"_Just_ pneumonia?" Sam asked. He didn't know what he was expecting from dragging his brother to the doctor's, but it sure as hell wasn't this. Dean flinched, watching his brother's expression shift to cover a moment of panic. He was the cause of that worry.

"Lungs in a healthy young person don't just up and quit one day. This is a lot to go wrong at once. And, yes, it can happen, but not often. So it would be a prudent move to check everything out and make sure there's not an underlying cause. Give me a half an hour and I'll have a direct admit to Titusville Regional and an ambulance to pick you up. Any questions?" Dr. Finnegan seemed extremely anxious to get things on the road, practically bouncing from one foot to the other. If Dean hadn't been struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of information he was being presented with, he probably would be been laughing a lot and making snide remarks about stealing the man's gold. As it was…

"Ambulance? Why can't Sam drive me?"

"In the condition I know you're in, I can't just let you out of here with the promise to drive straight there. Sorry, pesky oath to do no harm. The ambulance will have oxygen and access to training your family won't have if you get suddenly worse."

That answered that question. It wasn't an answer Dean liked, but the doctor was just doing his job, and considering how pissed he got when other people interfered in _his_ job…well, maybe he'd have to let it slide. Especially since Sam had the same look burning in his eyes in the days before Dean went to Hell.

"Okay, one more question…whaddya mean _drained_?"

"There's fluid building up inside the sac that holds your lungs on the right side. The more fluid, the less your lungs can expand, the less you can breathe. Considering the mess your other lung is in right now too, it is a large cause for concern. Your lung capacity is just going to continue to diminish if left untreated. Smart move to come for treatment right now, because without it…well, let's just say it would be a very different conversation I'd be having with your brother. And I hate to break that kind of news." Dr. Finnegan gave Dean a meaningful look.

Choosing to ignore the last part of what Dr. Finnegan said, Dean continued. "Okay, so how do they drain it?"

"Local anesthetic, long needle."

"Well, that's just _awesome_," Dean said, enough sarcasm in his gritty voice to peel the paint from the walls.

"Anything else?" The doctor asked impatiently, slipping Dean's x-rays back into the brown envelope they had come in and handing them to Sam. "You'll need to show these."

"Nope, doc, I guess I'm just fine."

Sam glared at Dean as the wee doctor ducked out of the room, his calm demeanor slipping to reveal the fears dancing just under the surface.

"If you ever tell me you're fine again, I swear…"

"Sammy, lighten up. I'm the one about to get tapped like a beer keg."

"Don't tell me to lighten up!" Sam flailed the x-rays around, gesticulating wildly. "Your lungs are riddled with disease. An angel isn't going to be around to fix you all the time. Ever thought what hunting might be like if you can't run headlong into dangerous situations, if you have to stop every two seconds to catch your breath?"

To be honest, Dean hadn't thought very much about the long term for a quite a long time. After his dad died, he hadn't cared for a good long time, because he felt he didn't deserve to be there, except that he had to be around for Sam. Then he made the deal, so his time was running out anyway. Now he was back from Hell and the Apocalypse might be on its way – so, the thought of having to live with his body for an extended time hadn't ever occurred to him.

"Yeah, well, cheer up anyway. You're getting your way – the men in white coats are coming to haul my ass away in just a few minutes." Dean pulled his flannel and heavier jacket tighter around him as he endeavored to keep the mood light.

Sam pulled out a scowl he must have been saving for just the right occasion. "I'd hardly call _any_ of this getting my way."

"You know what I mean. Everything is being handled now, so relax." Dean threw his brother a wide grin. Now that it was starting to dawn on him just how sick he was, he felt a tad bad about giving Sam such a hard time. Sam only gave him a pained look in return.

"I'm going to get Bobby and let him know what's going on. Can he come back here?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah, of course."

A few minutes later a very serious Bobby burst into the room with purpose and smacked Dean upside the head.

"What was that for?!" Dean growled at Bobby and rubbed his head. "You like beating up the infirm?"

"You didn't get sick overnight, boy. You've been sitting on this for weeks. Hellhounds ain't the only way a man can die."

Dean simply snorted at this. He knew there was more than one way to die. He'd stood with his hands deep in people's insides, ripping out their organs. He knew.

He could swear the shrieks from Hell were really coming through the floor. Dean closed his eyes and tried to shut out the screaming, his breathing becoming more labored with his anxiety building.

Bobby squeezed his shoulder firmly. "You okay, son?"

Dean just nodded his head, not opening his eyes, afraid of what he might see crawling its way through the linoleum.

"Yeah, m'good."

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And onto chapter 8....


	8. Rick Rolled

**A/N:** I'm hoping I'm getting all the medical crap correct. If not, I apologize. Hopefully mistakes aren't so jarring as to take you out of the story.

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**Chapter 8**

**Rick Rolled**

Eventually the doctor came back in, accompanied by two paramedics.

"30 year old male with difficulty breathing, chest pain. X-rays showed pleural effusion on the right side. Fever, hypotension, coloring has improved since albuterol. I'd get him on a non-rebreather at least 10lpm, albuterol if he worsens, forty of Lasix. Two milligrams morphine with an additional dose of another two, as long as respirations remain within normal limits and only if absolutely necessary. Four of Zofran for any nausea." Dr. Finnegan was all business.

The paramedics tried to lift Dean onto the stretcher, which he staunchly refused. "I can do it!"

They pushed Dean out of the clinic, Sam, Bobby and Dr. Finnegan following. Hell, even Cathy was joining the party. Dean felt utterly ridiculous, the lamest float of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

"Take care, Mr. Morris. I'll be happy to do any follow-ups if you need me." Dr. Finnegan stated as the paramedics folded the legs of the stretcher and lifted Dean aboard the ambulance.

Sam made a move to climb onto the rig and one of the paramedics, a bloated beer-belly guy with atrocious side burns, told him. "Nope. No room. You can follow us there."

Dean and Sam's eyes met, Dean's face half covered by the oxygen mask. There was a moment of panic in Dean's eyes before they went to their normal state of trying to reassure Sam. He didn't know where the anxiety was coming from, because it was just an ambulance ride, but it made him feel slightly better that Sam had the exact same look in his eyes.

"Look, I'm going with you. He's my brother, I'm not leaving him." Sam used the same authoritarian tone that played FBI agents, the tone people rarely dared to question. The EMT stood out of the way slightly and the scent of stale french fries assaulted Sam's nostrils as he made his way past the man to climb onto the back of the ambulance.

Bobby nodded as Sam seated himself near his brother. "I'll drive the car up and meet you there."

**:::**

**:::**

Not only was the EMT a complete ass, but he wasn't very good at his job or he was a sadist. It took him five tries to get the IV in and the roads weren't particularly bumpy. Dean's eyes were bugging out at Sam as if to say, _Are you serious? I'm not a frickin' pincushion!_

Sam's jaw was set tightly, because he too was ready to throttle the guy. He wasn't going to cause a scene, though, because this was about Dean getting better – and with the oxygen, he had started to look a little like himself again.

But it only took one of those hacking lung convulsions to drain all the regained color, to leave Dean white and trembling, his body starving for air. He held one hand on the oxygen mask, clutching it as if it were a lifeline, as if he could push the air into his mouth by force.

The ass EMT started talking to the driver. "We have accessory muscle use now."

The voice from the front hesitated slightly. "Hey, uh, Lieutenant, you want to switch up? You drive and I go back there?"

"No," came the annoyed reply, "I got it. Just keep telling me the orders."

"Okay. Try a neb treatment." The driver sounded worried.

Sam looked from one to the other, not understanding what that meant, except he could look at his brother and understand that he was having trouble breathing.

"Hey, man, you're okay." Sam gave Dean a gentle punch to the shoulder.

And then the ass EMT tried to take the oxygen away. Dean was not having it.

"Mr. Morris, we're going to get you on a nebulizer. It'll help you breathe."

Still, Dean clung onto the mask, fighting the guy as much as he could, which was apparently a lot.

"He's really got a death grip on that thing, huh?" Ass EMT chuckled.

'Death grip' was not amusing to Sam, who scowled deeper. So sue him if he was a bit oversensitive about his brother not being able to breathe. But, asshole or not, the guy was trying to help his brother.

"Dude, c'mon, they need to give you medicine." Sam gently tried to pry his brother's fingers off of the mask. He saw the panic in his brother's eyes, panic he was definitely trying to keep a lid on, but that was coming through nonetheless. Dean felt like he was having to claw and scrabble for each precious breath, and being strapped to the stretcher with this terrible pain in his lungs was bringing him back to being strapped down and vivisected.

"Maybe if you explained what it is?" Sam asked the EMT. He glanced at his nametag. His name was Richard. He really _was_ a Dick.

"Medicine dissolves in the air – we give it to you with oxygen. Albuterol, just like your doc said." Richard rolled his eyes, giving a rushed explanation that emphasized his impatience.

The driver once again called out, the voice sharp and not hiding exasperation. "Rick, just run it through the mask he's already using."

Sam was about ready to offer to drive just to get the more competent paramedic working on his brother.

Ten minutes later Dean wasn't doing any better. It seemed nearly every breath was more of a struggle – laced with more pain. Dean began taking shallower breaths, trying to spare himself the worst of it.

"Neb not having enough of an effect, Chuck." Dick called out to his partner, for the first time his voice showing signs of nervousness.

"Up the O2 to fifteen liters and push the Lasix," came the reply from the front of the rig.

Dean strained his eyes trying to look backwards toward the voice and thought he was seeing double. One moment there were two people in the front of the ambulance – _Dude, is that guy wearing a beret?_ - then he was back to only catching a glimpse of the driver in the periphery over his right shoulder. The driver wasn't wearing a hat. There was some kind of suspicion niggling at the back of his mind, but breathing was more the pressing concern.

He peered back toward his brother over the top of the oxygen mask, his fingers still holding it tight in desperation. Sam looked like he was going out of his mind, kept staring at him, trying to read his face. Another round of coughing and the burning agony sizzling along Dean's left side had him wondering if he had broken a rib. Involuntary tears began pricking his eyes. _Do not let Sam see you cry_.

Sam watched Dean close his eyes.

"Mr. Morris, sir? You still with us?" Dick began taking Dean's vitals again, trying to make sure he hadn't lost consciousness. "Pulse ox down to eighty five percent."

"Dean? Dude, open your eyes, just for a sec – we just want to know you're awake."

Chuck up front said, "If he's out, switch to bag-valve and have the OPA ready."

_Choice A) Open your eyes and have Sam worry even more about you when you're crying like a little pussy, or Choice B) Let 'em think you're out of it._

Dean went with the latter.

"Dude, hey c'mon…"

_Nope, not gonna do it. I'm all hooked up to the machines here – isn't like they can't see I'm still alive._

"Sir?" Richard ran his clubbed fingers through his dirty blonde mullet of a haircut. Dean felt those greasy fingers at his wrist, grappling incompetently for a pulse.

"Dean? _Dean?!_"

_Crap. Kid's even more worried now._

"M'fine, Sammy." Dean wheezed from behind the mask, keeping his eyes closed. He could hear the sigh of relief mingled with frustration, coming from where his brother was sitting.

"I know you're not fine. C'mon, man…"

Dean would have heaved his own sigh, but didn't think he could spare the air. Sam studied his brother's face as his eyes opened and found himself wincing on Dean's behalf. The pain was visible in the shining eyes, bloodshot with tears that his older brother refused to let spill.

"That bad, huh?" Sam asked softly, giving Dean's leg a squeeze.

Dean merely grunted.

"The doctor said he could have morphine." Sam glanced at Richard.

"I need him to tell me he's in pain, not you."

"He's stubborn, he won't. You could light him on fire and he'd still say he's fine. Give him the meds." Sam's fists clenched.

"Sorry, _sir_." That "sir" was packed full of every insult an unimaginative goon like this guy could manage. And the douchebag was smiling, actually freakin' smiling at him!

"Look, _Dick_ -" Sam started before being interrupted by the driver.

"Hey, er, Mr. Morris's...brother?" the voice from the front queried hesitantly.

"What?" Sam snapped back peevishly.

"A medication like morphine slows respiration. Giving it to him might cause more problems. We're not trying to be jerks here, I promise."

Pain meds, right. Like Bobby said. Sam blew out a breath. "I'm sorry if I'm being rude. I just know him _really_ well. He has a really high pain tolerance, so for this to be bugging him like it is...that's saying something."

When that had no effect, Sam took another glance at his brother who was sipping on small, quick breaths that weren't doing him any good. "Plus, I know you can't see back here – but he's practically hyperventilating."

" Rick, if his resps are above eighteen give him the morphine. We have orders, we're covered."

"Whatever." Richard, Rick, Dick grumbled, clearly not thrilled that he had just been overruled. Even so, he pulled out the bolus of morphine and got it going into Dean's IV.

"Holy shit." Dean rasped after a moment, his eyes now glazed with a slight bit of opiate-induced dreaminess, rather than glazed with tears. He relaxed, able to take in fuller breaths now that he didn't feel like he was getting repeatedly stabbed between the ribs.

"Better?" Sam asked.

"Better." Dean agreed.

"How's his pulse ox lookin', Rick?" The driver asked cheerfully.

"Rising. Up to ninety two."

The corners of Dean's mouth quirked behind the oxygen mask. "Told you I. . . was at _least. . . _seventy-five."

Sam snorted. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean wheezed, his eyes twinkling. Bantering with his brother, being back in that comfort zone – it was peace beyond what morphine could ever bring. They hadn't been there in such a long time – a text from Ruby or dick angels quickly pulling them out the swing of things when they finally managed to recapture their relationship.

"Rick," Chuck called from the front, "We still have about a forty minute ride. So long as respirations hold keep pushing the morphine – the other dose in another twenty, keep him comfortable. Sir, why don't you try and get some sleep."

Dean gazed at Sam questioningly, asking for permission. He didn't want Sam to freak out if he closed his eyes, but god – he was so tired, and sleep sounded so good.

"Go ahead, man." Sam said softly. "I'll be right here."

**:::**

* * *

Next stop hospital. Reviews appreciated, as always.


	9. Neil Patrick Harris

**A/N:** This chapter and the next is more medical and dealing with Dean's fear regarding the hospital.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. More's the pity.

* * *

**Chapter 9**  
**Neil Patrick Harris**

Dean closed his eyes and time sped forward. He could swear he had just shut them when he found himself being prodded awake by Sam.

"Hey, we're here."

Dean blinked several times, still feeling a bit pleasantly drugged. That didn't stop him from scowling when the paramedics lifted him out on the stretcher. It was tantamount to being carried like a baby. He was a Winchester! He had faced things these guys would need an extra pair of underwear to face. And here he was, being carted around like a toddler in a stroller at the mall.

Sam couldn't help but chuckle at his brother's expression, which was coming through loud and clear even though it was half covered by the oxygen mask.

The younger Winchester strolled along next to the stretcher as Rick and Chuck rolled it through the entrance of the ER. "They'll get you into a room and maybe we can find a good looking nurse that'll let you walk around in the hallway."

Dean gave the two EMTs one final glare as they transferred him over to a hospital bed. "You...better."

Sam lips grinned for a moment, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. His brother couldn't say more than a few words without needing to stop for a breath. Dean had gotten worse just since this morning, hell – just since they left the doctor's office. The words Dr. Finnegan had said were echoing in his head – that if Dean hadn't come in for treatment today... _What if they were too late now?_ Sam shook his head to clear it of the overdramatic thoughts careening around his brain. He focused his attention on the nurses who were triaging Dean.

"These are his x-rays." Sam said, holding up the brown envelope.

"Hold onto those for now, hon. The doctor will be in to see you guys soon. You're a direct admit, so we'll just have someone check you over and then get you settled in a room upstairs."

To the delight of one nurse and the consternation of another, Sam stuck his nose in everything they were doing.

"What's his temp?" Sam angled his head to see the digital reading on the small vitals cart.

"Are you family?"

"Yes, I'm his brother."

"103.1. Do you know what his temp was before?"

"102.2, yesterday – I don't know what it was at the doctor's office today." Sam silently cursed himself for not familiarizing himself with Dean's medical records before they left.

Dean grunted. They were poking and prodding and treating him like he wasn't even there.

The more severe of the two nurses looked up, as if surprised to see him there.

"Hi . . . I'm the patient." Dean tossed a tight smile at her. The last dose of pain meds had been more than twenty minutes before, the peak of it wearing off – the burning twist in the left side of his chest returning slowly. He imagined it as a long fuse on a stick of dynamite – sooner or later the charge _was _going to blow.

The sweeter of the two, a young strawberry blonde who must have just graduated nursing school, came over to Dean and gave his elbow a gentle squeeze. "We'll get you feeling better, Mr. Morris. Just try and breathe nice and slow."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, man."

"If they want. . . to stick. . . tube . . . down m'throat . . ._No_."

"What do you mean, no?" Sam startled.

"Always do. . . hate it."

"I know, man, but it is a life-saving measure. They don't exactly do it for kicks." Sam stared at Dean.

Dean did hate it. Sure, he was always completely out when they put the tubes in, but he woke up with this thing in his mouth, down his throat, and he could feel it heavy in his chest. Waking up with that kind of surprise was sort of like being strangled in reverse. There was more to it, though. Just the idea of it, being strapped down while people shoved things inside you, choking you, strangling you – he'd had that done to him. Hell, he'd done it to others. No nice sanitary sterile tubing, though. Rusty pipes, disgusting PVC that probably was chopped out of a sewage system somewhere. The minions of hell used anything that would cause pain, but still allow the person to live through it for awhile. Well, not live…but for their "bodies" to hold up. Dean felt his breath come quicker just thinking about it, imagining Alastair in a white coat while black-eyed nurses held him down.

"Heart rate is increasing. Pulse ox is dropping." One of the nurses turned and left, presumably to get the doctor. The other one, the young one, gazed at Sam. "Talk to him, try to calm him down."

"Dean, _Dean_! Listen to me, open your eyes, look at me!" Sam lowered the railing on the gurney and placed his hand on his brother's chest. "I'm right here. Concentrate on pushing my hand away, nice and slow."

Dean opened his eyes. He was here – here in this shitty hospital with his shitty sick body and his awesome baby brother.

"That's it." Sam said, keeping an eye on the monitor as Dean's heart rate decreased. "Good job, man."

"Not four." Dean wheezed.

The doctor came in, an incredibly young looking doctor. The theme from _Doogie Howser_ began playing through Dean's head and a large grin began to play across his wan features. Sam knew immediately what Dean was thinking and pretended to cough in his hand, trying to remain serious.

"I heard you guys have x-rays to show?" the doctor said, a good-natured smile on his face. From his voice, they could tell that he wasn't as young as their initial assessment, but still definitely looked like he should be starting pre-med, not working in a hospital.

"Yes, sir." Sam's mouth quirked as he held up the large envelope. "Have 'em here." He didn't even think the guy would be able to reach the light-up board used to view radiology films. Trying to do the kid a favor, he took out the x-rays himself and attached them to the board. Sam had the decency to feel somewhat chastised when the kid grinned at him and flipped the x-ray around so it would be the right way.

The young doctor looked thoughtful for a moment while he gazed at the image of Dean's lungs. "Ew."

Both Dean and Sam gave him an incredulous look. "Did you just saw 'ew' about his insides?" Sam asked in disbelief.

The kid blushed. "Yeah, sorry, just - your lungs hate you, man."

"That's the second time today we've heard that." Sam sighed.

"Well, we'll have a radiologist read your films to be sure, but it looks like you've got a lot of infection going on. Along with fluid over here, what looks like pleurisy over here. Are you feeling a lot of pain on your left side?"

Dean glanced at Sam and nodded his head.

"How long has that been going on?" Dr. Tyke M.D. leaned casually against Dean's bedside.

Once again, Dean glanced at Sam. It could have been the fever, but Sam could swear that Dean was blushing. "'Bout two or three . . . weeks."

"What the hell, man?!" Sam couldn't help shouting out.

"Wasn't that bad."

Sam was practically burning holes into Dean with his eyes, a gaze intense enough to fry his brain even if he didn't have the fever. And Dean knew well enough what Sam wanted to say. _Wasn't that bad, but was bad enough that you were sneaking the gunshot pain meds._

"Do you work in the mines?" the child-doctor asked.

Both brothers looked up, startled from being in the midst of their silent argument.

"No." Dean rasped.

"Anything like that - chemical processing? Something like that?"

Dean shook his head, another coughing fit starting that made him feel as if his lungs were paper and someone was holding them out to a flame – the burn singeing the edges, even as he felt the nauseating rumble of whatever was rolling around within them.

"The only possibility we could come up with were fires in a crematorium he did some work in," Sam answered for his brother, following his cover-up story from before. They couldn't exactly tell the doctors that they spent a good deal of their time burning bodies or fiddling around with the cremated remains of ghosts.

Dean blinked, the doctor was apparently a ninja – had managed to pull him up into a sitting position and started listening to his chest. "Breathe in?"

"You used proper precautions, correct? Funeral homes have to be up to code nowadays, masks and everything."

"Er," Dean wheezed, getting his breath back. "Problem if I didn't?" Of all the precautions their dad had taught the Winchester brothers, hazmat safety for burning bodies was never one of them.

"No masks?" the kid asked, moving the stethoscope and prompting another breath in.

Dean shook his head.

"Well, that might explain why you're so sick. Inhalation of bone dust is not exactly healthy." The kid put his hands in the pockets of his too-large white coat to stop himself from swinging his arms. It wasn't hard for Dean to picture the doc as a first grader; Sam used to fidget like that too – especially on the first day at a new school.

"What does that mean if that's the cause?" Sam asked worriedly.

"It doesn't change treatment much, excepting it might be a bit harder to fight off with normal antibiotics, and there may be an underlying inflammatory reaction that we'd have to treat. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We need to get a biopsy, drain the effusion. Lots to do."

"Biopsy?" Sam nearly spat out. He didn't mean to sound so rude, but he felt like he was having stuff heaped on him. _And biopsies are usually for...no, no, no, can't go there._

"I'm saying we need to test to find out what kind of bacteria and how best to treat it," the young doctor stated calmly. "The x-ray and lung sounds point toward pneumonia, we need to find out what kind."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry." Sam took a step back, realizing he was towering over the little squirt, who - to his credit - hadn't backed up at all.

"No problem, man. I get it. I'm a little brother too." Doogie scratched at his head and offered Sam and Dean a smile.

Both brothers smiled in return. The feel good moment was disrupted when an orderly and a nurse came in. "Dean Morris?"

Sam nodded.

"We're ready to transfer you upstairs."

"Sam, go get . . . coffee . . . some dinner." Dean uttered throatily, trying to stifle another round of violent coughing.

"Dean, I'm hanging around. Deal with it." Sam said firmly.

"I'm older. I tell _you_ . . . what to do."

"Look, we'll go up to your room so I know where it is, then I'll go find Bobby once you're settled, okay?"

"Sam. . . the _car_."

Sam chuckled at the look of intense worry that crossed Dean's face. "Bobby knows better than to mess with her."


	10. Grizzly Adams

**A/N:** More medical stuff, more hell-traumatized Dean.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, more's the pity.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

**Grizzly Adams**

They rolled Dean up to the third floor, the respiratory therapy wing – where everyone and their mothers, literally, were hacking up their lungs. There was a guy with pulmonary fibrosis and an honest-to-god case of Black Lung Disease. Pretty much everyone else was lung cancer or emphysema. For the moment, they gave Dean his own room. They told him he'd have to be alone until they got the confirmation that it was definitely not tuberculosis.

"TB, _great_." Sam muttered, "They just keep laying on the possibilities."

Dean merely raised his eyebrows at his brother, barely paying attention. He was too wrapped up in the returning pain.

Two new white coats came in, a man and a woman. The woman introduced herself as the attending physician on duty, the man was the pulmonologist.

Sam sat on the edge of Dean's bed, stretching his long legs out.

"So, Mr. Morris, how long have you been feeling ill?" The pulmonologist had an intense stare, extremely dark brown eyes – nearly black. It made Dean extremely uneasy. He focused on the lady doc's eyes instead, which were a warm brown, like melted chocolate.

"Few weeks."

"And your initial symptoms?"

At the moment, Dean really wished Sammy would leave. What was the point of keeping things from his brother if the stupid doctors made him admit everything anyway?

"Started with . . . pain in my. . . right here." Dean's hand grazed the upper ribs on his left side. "Got tired, felt sick." Dean shrugged, refusing to look at Sam.

"Sick as in…?" The female doctor, Dr. Ferguson, gazed at Dean intently, taking a step forward, her sensible low-heel pumps clicking on the linoleum tile.

"Cough . . . headache . . . fever."

"Anything else? Any other pain?"

Sam wouldn't look at Dean, not because he was mad – although he was slightly pissed off, but because he knew if he were to look at Dean his brother might not tell the whole truth. Although, he was damn interested in what the answer was going to be.

"Back hurt. Stomach."

Dr. Ferguson nodded. "That's to be expected with such widespread lung infection."

They took turns both listening to Dean's chest, having him dangle his feet off of the bed so they had full access to listen to his lungs from the back. At this point he was leaning forward so far they had to support him so he wouldn't fall forward off the bed. Dean didn't know why, but the leaning forward was automatic, like it helped squeeze more air into his lungs or something.

The doctors muttered to each other for a moment, which made both Sam and Dean roll their eyes at each other. The mutual annoyance – it was comforting, the Winchesters getting to team up on something.

"Okay, we agree that the first order of business is to drain the effusion. We'll get samples of the fluid and some cultures to test as a preliminary step, so hopefully we won't need to do a bronchoscopy."

Too sick to maintain his usual poker face, Dean flinched. "Tell me what happens."

"We'll use local anesthetic, conscious sedation. We'll go in between the fourth and fifth ribs and insert tubing in the pleural space. Using a chest tube we can let it drain over a few days, so that even if it begins to accumulate again – it won't interfere with breathing. You should know that there is always the complication that your lung may collapse – so you need to let us know immediately if there is an increase in pain on that side."

"Wait…" Dean couldn't get out the rest of the sentence, but Sam knew the question.

"I thought the effusion was supposed to be drained with a needle. Isn't a chest tube a little extreme?"

"If it were just the effusion that would mostly likely be the case, but because we also have a severe infection of both lungs we need to respond with equal force. The worse the effusion is, the less effective coughing can be – so currently even the body's natural method to heal is impaired."

Dean glanced at Sam. "Why not antibiotics, then wait 'n' see?"

"We will be treating you with antibiotics, but this is very necessary." The male doctor responded to Dean, his abysmal eyes like glinting onyx. "You'll breathe a lot easier after we do this, your lung capacity will increase dramatically."

"Knock me out for it then." Dean said quietly. He felt ashamed, incredibly ashamed that he was letting fear dictate how he was handling this situation, but he saw himself on a surgical table, the room full of instruments, and none of them were meant for healing – only destruction of the flesh. No anesthetic to lull you to sleep, just the mocking voices of demons looking for some kind of Martha Stewart creativity award in torture.

"We'd really prefer light sedation under the circumstances – there are more risks to general anesthesia, especially in someone already having problems breathing and experiencing infection. You'll be aware, but I promise you won't even care what we're doing to you." _Did the male doctor even have a name?_ Not seeing a identification badge, Dean decided to call him Dr. Demon.

"Knock me out, or I won't consent," Dean croaked out while a smirk graced his lips. He knew consent was mandatory for any procedure. Of the many rules and regulations hunters needed to be aware of at all times, hospital policy was no exception. The most important tools: 1) You needed to know exactly what signing yourself out AMA entailed – to avoid a bill, police, or good intentions 2) Exactly how much time you could be held for a psych consult against your will, and 3) The way to spot the sucker doctor or nurse who was sure to help you refurbish your first aid kit for free. A hunter needed to know _all_ of this and Dean never forgot for an instant. It wasn't hard when his dad had drilled stories into his head of hunters John had known who didn't memorize those rules.

Signing yourself out against medical advice was a must in every hunter's arsenal – very self-explanatory, and both Dean and Sam were doing that before they were even of legal age to do so. The guy who didn't know how to navigate the nuthouse system ended up in a state facility for two years, doped up on Thorazine when he had raved about doppelgangers post-concussion. Some poor hunter who went back a second time to the same supposed kindly nurse to fill up his kit's morphine supply ended up busted for intention to distribute narcotics. Both guys ended up reaching for the soap.

Sam gazed at Dean with concern. The look crossing Dean's face was exactly what those stories had put there: _You're not going to have me bending over the Lever 2000, doc_. In other words – _I know the rules, Chuckles._

Still, Sam lied easily to the two doctors, purposefully walking them a step away from the bedside. "My brother did contract work in Iraq, construction. He was captured by insurgents and tortured. He's pretty uneasy about people chopping into him now. It might be best if you did do general anesthesia."

"We'll arrange it." Dr. Ferguson said, her eyes filled with pity as she looked at Dean.

_Ugh, lady, don't look at me with pity. For all you know I tortured your grandma._

"We'll need your consent for the surgery, including intubation. I'll have to go get that paperwork." The lady doc said, briskly marking something on her clipboard.

"Uh, _intubation_?!" Dean winced as his entire respiratory tract decided it wanted out of his chest, his upper body being thrust forward with every wracking burst of air. Dean clenched his eyes closed, again refusing to let tears spill. Closing his eyes found him confronting the memory of a long glass pipe being shoved down his throat and his neck stepped upon, drowning for an eternity in shards of glass and bone.

"Intubation is standard with general anesthesia. When was the last time they gave him something for pain?" Dr. Ferguson asked Sam, who had leaned over to grab Dean's hand and squeezed. It worried him that Dean squeezed back, using Sam's hand to express some of the hurt. Usually Dean would smack his hand away, making some jibe about what a girl Sam was. At worst, he'd let Sam's hand stay for a quick moment, but purposefully keep his own relaxed. It was his way of trying to reassure Sam. Now Dean needed reassurance – but Sam had never had much practice at that.

"On the ambulance. At least an hour ago." Sam looked up at Dr. Ferguson, finding her studying his brother's chart intently, glancing from it back up to the monitors.

"Unfortunately, we can't give him any more right now – because we'll be using medications during surgery as well – we don't want to compromise his breathing any further."

Dean huffed a pained laugh, embarrassed. "Yeah, about that…"

"Had a change of heart, Mr. Stroud?" Dr. Demon quirked his mouth in amusement.

_Want me to change your face, Doc?_

"Local's fine, . . . just. . . make sure I _really_ don't care, huh?" Dean addressed the last part to Dr. Ferguson, refusing to even glance at Sam. He prayed this wasn't going to become some long drawn out conversation later.

"Try and hang in there. We'll be ready for you in a bit," she said.

As soon as the doctors were out of the room, Sam helped Dean get fully back into bed. He made sure that the hospital bed was raised so that Dean was sitting up, remembering how when he was sick as a little kid, Dean had always propped him up on nearly every pillow they had access to. Sam ran his fingers through his own hair, brow furrowed, and took great care in adjusting the oxygen mask on his older brother's face, a face which had grown paler, more shadowed, more clammy. He wished they would hurry up and get his brother on some goddamn antibiotics.

"Dean?"

"Hrm?" Dean opened one eye.

"When you were so against being intubated – and just now – with wanting to be fully knocked out," Sam started slowly, knowing he had to tread carefully on the subject matter, "That was because of what they did to you in Hell, wasn't it? You're afraid if they strap you down that they are going to start….er…" In an effort to not say words like 'carve' or 'slice,' he made a hand motion like one hand was sawing at the air.

"…jerking me off?" Dean smirked.

Sam should have expected that. "Seriously, Dean."

"_Seriously_, Sam, thank you. . .for bringing this up. . . right before surgery. 'Preciate it. . . really." Even with the air grating out of his lungs noisily - the sarcasm could not be missed. Dean let his eyes close again, withdrawing into himself because of the serrated knives beginning to poke through his chest wall. Maybe withdrawing from the conversation too.

"You didn't answer me."

"You answered . . . for yourself." Dean drew his shoulders forward, as if he could fold himself in half lengthwise. "Hey, Bobby."

Sam turned around with a start, happy to see their friend. "Hey, Bobby!"

Bobby scratched his beard as he crossed the room, gazing at Dean intensely as he pulled up a chair by the bedside. "Hey, kid, how ya doing?"

"Friggin' fantastic, you?" Dean shot out.

Sam gave Bobby an apologetic look. "They are going to put a chest tube in, and they are holding out on pain meds until then."

Bobby winced sympathetically. "Ah, so in the meantime he acts like a grizzly with one foot in a trap."

"Pretty much," Sam said, "But if anyone was entitled…"

Dean pulled his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes again. _I'm not entitled to shit._

"Go get . . . dinner." Dean managed to croak out. _Please, Sam, I just need a minute alone to pull myself together._

"But what if they come get you for surgery?" Sam frowned deeply.

Bobby watched as the boys did that Winchester telepathy thing, which wasn't real telepathy – it was simply knowing someone inside and out. He could imagine how the conversation was going.

_Since when has anything in a hospital run on time, Sam? You can go get dinner, I'll still be here._

_I'm not leaving, so forget it. What if something happened?_

_Nothing is gonna happen. You got me to the hospital, they got me hooked up to all these friggin' wires. The second something goes down I'll have Doogie or someone in here. I'll be fine._

_But Dean – _

_No buts Sammy. You're not going to do me any good running yourself into the ground. Go get some food. _

_Ugh, fine. I'll be back in fifteen. _

_Good._

While this conversation was only going on in Bobby's head, the jist of it appeared to be real enough as the brothers had a stare-down. Dean turned to Bobby with a familiar wide smile embracing his pale face – the smile that always said 'I know I just won that argument' -- and rasped out, "See you in a few."

The All-Time Reigning Champion of the Winchester Pout Olympics huffed and stomped out of the room. Bobby followed, grabbing Dean's ankle for a brief moment as he walked by the bed.

The moment they were out of sight, Dean turned onto his side, clutching the oxygen mask to his face for dear life. It felt like someone was taking a buzz saw to his ribs with every breath. It did not help at all that he could remember _exactly_ what that felt like. He drew his knees into his chest, praying for unconsciousness as he listened to the struggling breathing of all the patients on the ward.

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Reviews Appreciated!


	11. Laverne & Shirley

**A/N:** Thank you for the continued support! I'm kind of, in awe.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, more's the pity.

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**Chapter 11**

**Laverne & Shirley **

Sam and Bobby went to the cafeteria and stood in line, shoving garish orange trays as they collected food passed out by ladies in hairnets. Like every single time Sam was in a hospital cafeteria, it reminded him of being back in school again – the random two or three week stints he did at this high school and that. It was really only the fact that Bobby was here with him, that he wasn't watching Dean hit on girls out of the corner of his eye that kept him focused on the present.

It was Salisbury steak day, though, so Sam couldn't help but suppress a grin. Dean's favorite aside from a good burger.

Bobby insisted on paying for their meals and they went to a nearby table, eating in silence for awhile.

"So," Bobby said, studying Sam's face, "How are you hanging in?"

Sam looked at Bobby blankly. "Me?"

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "There someone else at this table that I'm not seein'?"

"Well, no…I just mean, I'm not the one whose lungs are crapping out on him, y'know? I'm fine."

"You Winchesters and your 'just fines' can really go stick it." Bobby pushed his tray back in disgust.

Sam blinked in surprise. "Bobby – what are – "

"Look, Sam…we both dealt with Dean's death before. I know what it did to me, and I saw what it did to you. And I know that I'm not okay with what is going on here – I'm worried, well, more than I'd like to say. If _I'm_ that worried, I know you've got to be on the brink."

Sam paused and put his fork down. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apologies, kid. I want you to talk to me instead of sitting on it. You two have enough on your shoulders without upping the load needlessly."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Bobby." Sam shook his head. "Yeah, I'm worried, but – me talking about it isn't going to change that. And I need to be strong for him, focus on him."

"There's that whole sacrificial streak again…"

"It isn't about that. You know how Dean is when it comes to me. The more he sees me worried, freaking out – the further he's going to push himself. And you _saw_ him," Sam said pointedly. "Does he look like he can afford to be pushing himself?"

"That's actually a pretty logical argument." Bobby acknowledged, pulling his tray back in front of him.

"Yeah, well…don't be relaxing too much. I'm sort of caught in between here."

"Caught between what and what?"

Sam chewed on a mouthful of salad before answering. It couldn't hurt to get Bobby's input, especially when he was itching to help. And really, they were all helpless in this situation. Whatever kept them feeling useful was a good thing.

"Well, like I said…I'm trying to be there for him, stay calm so that he lets people take care of him, so that he's not trying to pretend he's not in pain. He's going to try and do that anyway, that's just him – but if I lose it, game over."

"Okay," Bobby nodded. "So what's on the other side of the coin?"

"Dean being my big brother – that's who he is, what he's always thrown himself into." Sam paused for a moment, letting his fingers trace the faux wood pattern of the table. It was kind of a short-sighted and selfish thought – as if his older brother should be solely focused on him, and that's wasn't how Sam felt. He wanted to say that he thought that Dean getting to be his big brother, embracing that role, allowed him to forget for a moment that he had a role in the plans of angels and demons. Maybe what was selfish was Sam trying to deny Dean every single opportunity of being the big brother lately.

"And?"

"Well, maybe letting him calm me down would be a good thing too? Maybe feeling like he's not as helpless as we all are, that he's still the big brother even if he's laid up, maybe that's good for him too." Sam quirked his mouth to the side. The truth was, maybe he missed it a little too – allowing himself to be that vulnerable in front of Dean, sharing his worries with the guy he knew had his back. _No, this isn't about you being weak, it's about letting Dean feel strong after Hell._

Sam fiddled with the long strings of shredded carrot in his salad. "So, anyway, that's what I'm torn between."

"Looks like you've got yourself a dilemma there." Bobby said, adjusting the rim of his cap.

"I was hoping for some insight…" Sam replied wryly.

"My advice – play it by ear. You'll know in the moment what he needs, you always have. And you always figure out a way to give it to him – otherwise he wouldn't be in that room right now. Besides," Bobby chuckled. "You've got another thing comin' if you think that Dean can't see when you're upset. He's had you figured out since he was five, kid."

"I guess." Sam shifted guiltily in his seat. He didn't want to think that Dean could figure him out _that_ easily, not when he was trying to hide things from him. As if prompted by that thought, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. With Dean out of commission and Bobby here in front of him, there was really only one person it could be.

"Uh, Bobby, I'm gonna go check and see if there's anything in the Impala Dean would need. Toothbrush and all that."

"Okay, kid. I parked it near the ER entrance, I didn't know you guys would be in a room so quick." Bobby didn't offer to go with him. He figured he might need a moment to get himself together before heading back upstairs, especially if he did plan on carrying out the whole "I'm perfectly fine with my brother being laid up in the hospital" charade.

Sam made his way quickly down the hallway, out the closest doors, around the building and into the parking lot – his phone buzzing continuously the whole way. He shivered a little at the unexpected decrease in temperature that accompanied the grey afternoon sky. In his head he could hear Dean complaining about it. "_You get two days of good weather, Sammy – and then you're either freezing your nips off or sweating your balls off. Either way, you're leaving parts of you behind._"

He pushed the connect button as soon as he was absolutely sure he was clear of Bobby's line of sight.

"God, you're persistent." Sam said.

"Only when you're not where you said you were going to be. Really don't want to have to scry for you, it makes my clothes smell all – herby." Ruby drawled.

"Well, things came up. We're still in west Penn." Sam hated that his voice sounded apologetic, like he was standing up a date or something. Ruby was supposed to be a means to an end, a sexy means to be sure, but that was it. He had never intended for his feelings for her to become as strong as they did. Not love, but maybe a slight bit of like mixed in with dependency. He'd done what he'd promised Dean he'd never do – he _trusted_ her.

"Things came up, huh? Well, gee, Sam…it isn't like you have more important things going on or anything. End of the world ring a bell? Avenging your brother sound familiar?"

"Don't start. Of course, I remember." Sam also hated that she could be _such_ a bitch.

"Well, then why still hanging around in East Bumfuck, Pennsylvania?"

Sam sighed. "It's Dean, alright? He's in the hospital."

Immediately contrite, Ruby began spluttering apologies. "Damnit - I'm sorry, Sam. What happened? Did a hunt go bad?"

Sam didn't hate it, however, when Ruby seemed to remember she used to be human, seemed to understand how important his brother was to him. He often wondered if she had a brother when she was roaming the earth in her own civvies, rather than the borrowed body. The one time he had tried to ask her about her past, he was thoroughly rebuked for it. He assumed it was too painful for her, otherwise she wouldn't be hanging onto it longer than all the other demons that had forgotten who they once were.

"No, it wasn't a hunt. He's sick. Seriously sick."

"Must be. Your brother doesn't seem like the type to be felled by the sniffles."

"You don't know the half of it." Sam replied, finally remembering what he was supposed to be doing and opening up the backseat of the Impala. Grabbing Dean's duffle, he began sorting through it absentmindedly. "We had a helluva fight just getting him here. Just in time, too, from what we were told."

"What does he have?"

"An infection that may be pneumonia, but hasn't been confirmed yet, pleurisy, and fluid in his lungs."

"Damn, Sam…he doesn't do things half-assed, does he?"

"Apparently. Anyway, we'll be here for at least a week. Did you have any leads on Lilith?"

"Intel, but nothing to be acted on right now. She's in Darfur, basking in genocide for awhile."

"Probably helping it along." Sam spat in disgust.

"Yeah well…fish gotta swim…" Ruby lilted in a sing-song voice. On the other end, Sam's face contorted in a softer shade of derision. The way Ruby sounded about Lilith prodding along mass murder – like it was some natural act, like a mother talking about breastfeeding – it was a reminder that she was still a demon. Sam spent a good amount of time trying to forget that little fact nowadays.

"Okay, well, keep me updated. I gotta get back to Dean."

"Bye_._"

Sam said a quick goodbye and hung up.

"Crap," he muttered. The clock on his phone told him he was supposed to be upstairs five minutes ago, which meant ten minutes by the time he made it upstairs, which meant fifteen minutes since Dean had expected him back up there.

_Send him to hell, keep him waiting before surgery. Well, if I hadn't already won the Worst Brother Alive award, this sure puts me ahead of the pack._

On his way around the building Bobby came into sight.

"Where you been, kid?" The tone in his voice was a little too frantic for Sam's liking.

"Getting the stuff. You know Dean, not exactly a neat packer." Sam held out Dean's bag as proof of his journey to the car. "Why, what happened?" Sam immediately quickened his pace as they set off toward the entrance in step.

"Well, a nurse came to find us a couple minutes after you left. They came to get your brother for surgery, and he's damn near throwing a fit refusing to go until you get back up there."

"Damnit! Hospitals are never on time, never! The one time they are….damnit! He hasn't punched out any orderlies yet, has he?" Sam threw a questioning look toward the older hunter, not pausing to slow down as Bobby had to nearly run to keep up with Sam's much longer legs.

"Give him ten more minutes and he will. But the nurse told me that he's getting himself too worked up, and they are going to knock him out if he carries on much longer."

"Crap." Sam muttered.

They reached the main elevators, Sam pushing the button for Dean's floor several times in rapid succession. The doors began to close just as a woman began running towards them.

"Hey, wait!"

Sam simply offered an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, not even pretending to reach for the button.

The elevator jarred into motion, creaking upward at a snail's pace.

"C'mon, c'mon…" Sam muttered. "What is this - the slowest elevator on earth?"

"Beats being the most haunted." Bobby chuckled.

Sam paused in biting his nails long enough to give Bobby an incredulous look.

" – which clearly is a story for another time." Bobby continued.

No sooner did the bell ring out to let them know they had arrived at their destination, did they hear the commotion coming from Dean's room. Several patients in johnnies and bathrobes were standing in the hallway with expressions of either fright or bemusement.

They heard an unfamiliar voice say, "He'll be here in a second, man! We'll just roll you to pre-op and he can meet you there!"

There was the clatter of something falling to the ground. Sam prayed it wasn't his brother as he rounded the corner into the room. It wasn't. Apparently Dean was busy tossing things around the room, hanging onto the railing of his bed with one hand and using his IV pole as a weapon to try and keep two non-menacing orderlies at bay. The clatter had been an emesis pan Dean had hurled at closest orderly. Sam would have had a hard time stifling the laugh that wanted to burst out of him, except he saw the look of anger - and more than that - disappointment, on his brother's face.

"Look who decided . . . to show up!" Dean rasped with shallow pants of exertion.

"Yeah, yeah…I'm here, dude. Just calm down…I was just getting some of your stuff from the car. Sorry I took so long." Sam was using his I-need-to-talk-Dean-down-from-a-ledge measured voice. Dean _despised_ that voice.

"I'm calm! Just . . . tell Laverne and Shirley here . . . to back off!" Dean punctuated the point by thrusting the IV pole out toward one of the be-scrubbed men, who had made the mistake of taking a step forward.

Sam motioned to the two orderlies to leave the room and they gratefully obliged. One muttered to the other as they left the room, "How the hell is that guy even standing up?"

_It was a fair point_, Sam thought, as he kept his eyes on his brother. As soon as the orderlies were out of the room, Dean's knees buckled. Sam crossed the room hurriedly to give him a hand, but Dean immediately bit out. "I got it!" before pushing himself further upright.

"Okay, you got it. Let's just get you back into bed before the orderlies come back in with IV poles of their own."

Dean only nodded. The only place he really wanted to be right now was bed, so that worked out just fine. Although, that wasn't exactly true either. The place he wanted to be was behind the wheel of his baby with this hospital, this whole state, fading in the rearview. His body clearly had other ideas. He got himself back on the damned bed, taking a few long hits of oxygen as Sam looked on worriedly, guiltily. As if Dean didn't know his brother was talking to the reigning Skank Supreme.

Now was not the time for that argument, though. Dean had nearly kicked the bucket, perhaps _should _have, in a hospital once before. He wasn't mad enough to chance going into even minor surgery leaving Sammy thinking he was pissed, just on the off chance something did happen. Two-bit demonic whores were not worth putting that sort of potential weight on his sibling's shoulders. Still…he _was_ mad.

"Sam…?" Dean croaked out breathily. It seemed all his strength had been used up trying to spearfish for hospital employees.

"Yeah?"

"Really . . . didn't want . . . to go under the knife mad at you."

Sam's eyes fell in shame. "I'm sorry," he said huskily.

"I know y'are, Sammy . . . c'mere."

Sam got closer as Dean held one hand out, grabbing Sam's shoulder in a seeming moment of brotherly affection.

And then he shot out with the other hand to clamp onto Sam's left nipple and twisted as hard as he freakin' could. _How's that for Purple Nurples?_

"Shit! Ow!" Sam let out a grunt-laugh of surprise, automatically taking a step back to protect his chest, with Dean still pinching so fiercely he was almost getting pulled off of the bed.

Sam grinned at Dean, his eyes still wide as he tried to massage the dull ache in his abused pectoral. "Feel better now?"

"Yep!" Dean smiled brightly, taking another long inhale of oxygen. "Don't worry, Sam. I can't die . . . I know you'll douche up my car . . . again."

"Glad I could give you something to live for, jerk."

"Bi-…" Dean tried to get out the standard response, but his infection-riddled airsacs just weren't having it.

Sam gave him a light punch in the arm. "I know."

The orderlies came back – this time with a matronly nurse in tow. Of the three of them, she was the one who seemed unafraid. "Ready to behave yourself, Mr. Morris?"

Dean nodded.

The nurse turned to Sam and Bobby, "Surgical floor is two down. You're free to come with him to the doors." The orderlies looked like they hoped to hell that Sam was going with them.

Sam looked at Dean to see how he felt on the subject, got one view of the micro-expressions of his face and understood. He could hear Dean's voice, strong and sure, in his head.

We're way past the melodrama quota for today, Sam. I'll see you when I wake up.

"We'll see you when you wake up." Sam said.

Dean nodded to Sam, who knew he had made the right call when Dean seemed to relax himself back against the bed. Bobby grabbed Dean's leg roughly as he rolled past. This gesture was also understood.

Sam and Bobby watched as Dean rolled away from them, Sam still rubbing his chest.

Bobby gave the tall man next to him a long look. "You coulda blocked that."

"Yeah," Sam said softly, bracing his hand behind his neck, his eyes still on the back of his brother's head. "I could've.

**:::**

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**:::**

Reviews Appreciated!


	12. Oh, R'lyeh?

**A/N:** Here's where we get to actual plot. (The chapter title is a reference to the Cthulhu Mythos written by H.P. Lovecraft ---father of horror fiction. If you got the reference, you deserve a diamond the size of my whole head.)

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**Chapter 12**

**Oh, R'lyeh?**

Sam and Bobby sat in the family waiting area together, both of them restless, their eyes continually darting to the clock.

"He should've been out by now, Bobby." Sam stood up again for the third time in five minutes and began pacing the floor again. He hadn't been able to sit still for a good hour now, and Bobby had long since given up trying to reassure him or try to get him to stay sitting.

"I know, kid."

"Family of Dean Morris?" a voice called hesitantly. Sam pivoted and gazed at a middle-aged woman with kind hazel eyes and graying hair.

"Yeah, that's us." Sam nodded his head and Bobby stood at attention.

"I'm Dr. Abagnale. I performed the procedure. Are you both immediate family?"

Sam didn't hesitate to nod. "I'm his brother, this is our dad."

"How is he, doc?" Bobby asked, shaking the surgeon's hand.

"He's in recovery. You can see him in a moment; there are just a few things I want to go over with you. Have a seat, please."

Both men sat down, mirroring each other in their anxiety as they leaned forward.

"The chest tube placement went fine. The fluid was sent down to pathology, but traces of pus and blood were visible. We're waiting on the labs for more information on the other cultures as well."

The doctor waited for them to digest this information before continuing. "Dean's blood pressure and respiration decreased during surgery, which is expected when someone so ill goes under any kind of sedation. His breathing didn't improve like we hoped afterward. So before you see him, you should know that he's been placed on a BiPAP as a temporary measure."

"A what? You didn't have to intubate him did you?" Sam asked, a bit of panic coloring his tone.

"No." The doctor glanced down at her notes. "So long as he continues to improve we don't expect we would have to, either."

Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "So, what was that thing you did?"

"A BiPAP is a machine which pushes oxygen into the body for Dean so doesn't have to struggle so much, but for the most part he's still breathing on his own. So, when you see him, you'll see a large mask over his face, larger than the oxygen mask he was using before."

"What's the next move?" Bobby chimed in.

"We wait for the labs to see what antibiotics are going to suit him best. We have him on a broad-spectrum now for post-surgical care, he's back on pain management now. Due to the breathing issues, he's not on the dose we'd like to give him, but since it was a chest tube placement and not a more extensive surgery, it is pain we know he can handle." Dr. Abagnale spoke in a reassuring yet trite way – the way someone who has had to have this type of conversation many times before speaks.

"Can we see him now?" Sam asked impatiently, already standing up.

"Yes, of course. Just so you're aware – the medications have him fairly out of it. Is he an enlisted man?"

"No, why?" Sam asked slowly.

"No, reason. He was mumbling something about a soldier. Most likely a hallucination; it seems to have passed as he's coming around."

The two hunters followed the surgeon down the hallway to the recovery room. Sam and Bobby caught a glimpse of Dean and exchanged a long look. Dean looked so tiny, unnaturally small. He had his IV going in one arm, an immense mask over his face, tubing leading from his chest into a small canister that was attached to the bed. He was groggy, but awake and pissed.

This sucks, Sam! I bet I look like Cthulhu with this friggin' mask on. Or Admiral Ackbar. Hey, Sammy, it's a trap!

Dean surly and stoned in the hospital was a combustible mix at best, usually resulting in orderlies punched and IV lines torn out. Sam offered a hesitant smile to his older brother, trying to keep his voice light and calm. "Hey, man, we're just waiting on the labs so someone can tell us what we need to do to get you better. Just keep breathing."

As if you needed to remind me. Where would I be without my little brother to wipe my ass for me? Dean was glad that he wasn't able to spout off the first thing that entered his mind. He was irritable and would've been taking it out on Sam in full force.

They told us this damn tube would make it easier to breathe. Next time let's ask to see the doc's diplomas before they start hacking into me. Deal?

"I know, man." Sam pulled up a chair next to Dean's bed, giving his brother's forearm a quick squeeze of reassurance. "They said this mask is temporary."

That better not be all that is temporary, Sam. There is a tube going up my pee-hole.

Bobby pulled up a chair on the other side of Dean's bed, but he kept silent, his eyes firmly on Dean's monitors. Dean's eyes rolled wild in his head, trying to convey his annoyance, the sarcasm in every thought he couldn't utter aloud. He'd rather portray the picture of pure umbrage and dickishness than get Sam all worked up about him being in pain. Even so, every now and again there was still that feeling of his left lung being dropped into a bucket of scalpels and jostled around like Shake N' Bake.

As hard as he was trying to keep it under wraps, some of it was still coming through, because Sam seemed to be flinching on his behalf. Dean did what he had to do, to protect himself, to protect his brother – hell, to even get that worried look out of Bobby's eyes; he closed his own eyes, giving Sam a thumbs up to let him know he was still in there.

"Okay, Fonzie, sleep." Sam murmured. "Dream of jumping over sharks."

**:::**

Dean did actually slip out of it for awhile, plunged into nightmarish depths of hell where Ruby and Lilith were taking turns drowning him in molten lava. Alastair stood there cleaning his carefully manicured nails with his favorite razor. And the deadly sins Pride and Wrath sat on nearby volcanic rock and played poker with Sam. Each time Dean was plunged down, his skin was scorching off down to the muscle and it was agony, but every time he came up all he kept seeing were the demons cheating Sam. He wanted to cry out to Sam that he saw them stacking the deck against him – that Sam could never win, but his own screams kept getting in the way. Still, he had hope because suddenly Sammy was looking right at him.

"Dean, c'mon. Wake up."

Thrust into wakefulness, Dean found himself with cool hands holding him down, pushing his arms down as he kept trying to reach for the mask on his face. His heart monitor was making noise like a hummingbird's wings. It took Dean a minute to realize where he was, and to understand he didn't need to fight – also to understand that it wasn't just Sam and Bobby in the room with him anymore. Blinking to clear the sand out of his eyes, the four extra people in the room that he originally counted were down to three. He could've sworn there was a tall guy standing by the door, but one strong blink and no one was there.

Dr. Ferguson and Dr. Demon were back, paperwork in tow, a nurse hanging another bag of medication to run into his IV.

"So, we have the results for you now that everything is back from the lab."

"..'kay," Dean murmured from behind the huge tentacle-faced mask, willing himself to calm down as he got more familiar with his surroundings. Not in hell. You're not in hell.

"You definitely do have pneumonia, but not your standard kind. Are any of you familiar with Legionnaires' Disease?"

Bobby look dumbfounded. "You're not serious."

Both Sam and Dean turned to look at Bobby and then back at Dr. Ferguson. "Okay, well – so we're all on the same page, it is a type of bacterial pneumonia. It is possible you got it at the crematorium if it was poorly maintained; it is also possible you got it from any other kind of place where it could be spread through poor ventilation shafts. It would be helpful if you could narrow it down, in case we have a possible outbreak."

Sam spoke up, because no way could they give the doctors a list of previous locations. They might as well draw a map to give to the cops.

"Doctor, like I said before, my brother does construction and renovation. I doubt we'd be able to pin down a place like that – considering all of them need some type of work in that department."

It wasn't a lie, either, Sam mused as he explained. The cases they worked often had them running around in condemned buildings where both the water and air filtration systems had been left dormant. The motels they stayed in also left much to be desired in air quality.

Dean tapped his fingernails on the railing to get the attention of the physicians. "Sam okay?"

"We'll keep an eye on him. Legionnaire's isn't spread from person to person, though, so unless your brother was visiting you on the job, I wouldn't worry about it." Dr. Demon didn't even lift his eyes from his notes as he spoke.

Well, gosh – I feel so much better now.

Dr. Ferguson seemed to sense that Dean wasn't fully convinced. "Your brother would be showing signs by now if he was infected."

Dean nodded. More and more, he liked the lady doc a lot better than the other douche.

"Continuing on…" Dr. Ferguson said, "There was the presence of pus and some blood in the effusion we began draining - consequences of a nasty infection that has had time to work itself into a tizzy. Sputum and urinalysis confirm Legionnaires'. Blood count doesn't indicate any other problems, no TB. So, it seems pretty clear that we're dealing with a nasty case of Legionellosis, which has sparked all the other problems."

"So, what's the next step now?" Bobby asked.

"We're going to try azithromycin for the first round of antibiotics and see how you do with them, Mr. Morris. We want your respiration to improve more before we put you back on the normal oxygen mask. We expect that should be happening soon enough for the man who uses his IV pole to keep hospital staff in line." There was an unmistakable twinkle in the lady doc's eyes. Even if there hadn't been, Dean still would've liked her. She talked to him like he was there.

"We're going to have to keep a close eye on the effusion that's draining," she said, pointing out the strangely bubbling container attached to the bed. "There was only a small amount of pus, so the fluid is still thin enough to drain via the tube we just inserted. If you don't respond to the antibiotics and infection in the pleural space increases, we may need to perform surgery to remove that material that won't drain. Any other questions?"

Dean shook his head slightly. There was nothing he could voice right now – everything took longer than three words. Like…'Gee, doc, can you get this friggin' tube out of my tubes?' or 'Hey, Chuckles, exactly how long am I going to be trapped here?'

"Okay, then. We'll be moving you back to your room soon. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call." Dr. Ferguson offered a smile. She also offered Sam her card with her number on it, letting him know that once she went home for the night, she was still available. Sam thought she meant for questions, but he couldn't be sure. Dean was always better at judging when women were in hot pursuit.

Bobby stiffly walked the doctors out of the room, a hand tugging on the visor of his trucker cap. Dean noticed the frown that seemed chiseled into his friend's face – but figured Bobby must be worried like Sam was. But then Bobby did his true nervous tic, which was to remove the cap and smooth a hand over his hair, placing the cap back on a little too firmly. This time it wasn't just Dean who noticed.

"Bobby, what is it?" Sam asked.

"You two didn't happen to be back near Philly near a month ago?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, you know we've pretty much been in Penn the whole time."

Bobby sighed. "You didn't stay at a place in town did you?"

"Ummm, I don't recall the name, Bobby – it was right downtown though, huge building. You remember, Dean?"

Dean nodded his head. He wasn't likely to forget. It was one of the nicest places they'd ever stayed before-after-or-during a hunt and it had been sheer dumb luck. Every nearby motel had been bought out for some event in town – a parade going on or something. So it hadn't taken much to get Sam to go for the idea of staying at the grand old building – it was either that or the car. They nearly hadn't gotten a room at that one either, the hotel having reserved off a huge chunk of rooms for whatever was going on. Two large beds, drapes that knew how to shut all the way, a shower powered by some kind of super-science, amazing cable TV... Neither of them complained very much at all. In fact, Sam had been in such a good mood that he hadn't busted Dean at all about going through half his weight at the mini-bar. Dean's eyes glazed dreamily – a mixture of pain management and the fondest memories he had about a hotel that didn't include a girl.

"Bellevue Stratford sound familiar at all?" Bobby asked.

Sam remained focused. "Um, yeah. That was it, I think. What's all this about?"

"Well, I know you didn't want to be working a case right now, but I think one has found you."

Dean shrugged as if to say, What's new? Bring it. Sam simply looked at Bobby, his brows knit together in confusion.

"Look, I'm not sure on this – it has been a pattern building for a good thirty years now – and it has been damn hard to put together." Bobby sighed again and tugged harder on the brim of his cap, sitting himself back on the other side of Dean.

"So, in 1976 the American Legion was having a convention in Philadelphia. 'Bout a week later some of the fellas begin to get sick, deathly sick."

"Legionnaire's Disease…" Sam offered.

"Yeah. The whole country went into a panic – like we've seen about SARS and bird flu. At any rate, once the germ was discovered, docs found the antibiotics to treat it best, it wasn't so scary anymore. Outbreaks could be contained."

"The next year – there was another convention hosted in Philly by the Legion. A man died, he got real sick just like the other guys had, but it was one guy – and he hadn't even stayed overnight at the hotel. Near as I can reckon, at least one person who has gone to those conventions has died – but here is where it gets hairy, not all those deaths happened to people who even walked into the Bellevue Stratford."

"Er, Bobby…no offense, but that doesn't sound like much of a pattern." Sam raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'm getting to that. So – over time, whenever I'm in the area and I catch wind of a new death – I try and do a little more research, get a bigger piece of the puzzle. I was in Indiana interviewing other local Legions, seeing if I can pin down something solid. Looks like all the victims had spent quality time at wherever the Legion decided to host their dinner ceremony – so the changing location rotates with how the Legion rotates their choice of venue."

"Dean, you didn't go to the ceremony, did you?" Sam remembered Dean taking off that night, but he figured it was on a prowl for girls. Since Dean didn't do that nearly as much since Hell and the might-be Apocalypse, Sam didn't pick on him about it when he thought Dean came back a little early.

Dean shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and held up one hand.

"Five minutes?"Sam clarified.

"Free booze." Dean's voice was hardly understandable behind the mask, but Sam still understood well enough.

Sam sighed angrily. "Dude, just.." Sam stopped, shaking his head. It wasn't like Dean had done anything terribly wrong. "Bobby, keep going."

"As time went on and antibiotics got better, folks would seem to get better, then they'd start relapsing all over the place. Get better and worse on a rollercoaster. Some would be discharged with a clean bill of health and the x-rays to prove it, be found at home dead the next morning. Doctors couldn't explain it."

"Okay, Bobby…sounds like there might be a case here, but why do you think Dean is involved besides that we were in Philly?" Sam didn't mean to sound accusing, or like he thought he knew better, he just really didn't want to freak out about Dean any more than he already was. The dude was leaking pus out his lungs through a tube. They really had enough on their plates currently.

Bobby continued his explanation. "A month ago the Legion held a welcome home parade for a squad coming back from Afghanistan. They held their ceremony at the Bellevue Stratford. So – you coming down with Legionnaire's now, after staying in that hotel….awful big coincidence in my book."

That was saying something, because Bobby's book didn't contain any coincidences at all. Sam bit his lip. "So, do you know what it is? Or why it goes after its victims?"

"That's what I'm going to need help with. Sounds like a vengeful spirit to me, maybe some kind of kin of the buruburu, but the who or the why I haven't sussed out yet."

Dean looked back and forth from Sam to Bobby, taking several slow breaths to try and prepare his question before pulling the heavy mask away from his face, struggling to get some give on the elastic that held it on his head. "So, . . . you're saying if we don't stop this . . . I die from effed up pneumonia."

"Dean, keep it on." Sam admonished, leaning over to flick his brother on the elbow, as Dean pulled the BiPAP back over his nose and mouth.

Bobby mulled this over for half-an-instant. "That's a fair assessment, sure."

"Are you friggin' kidding me?" Dean's exasperation left him even more breathless for a moment as he once again spoke out the side of the mask. "I swear, a Reaper has it out. . . for me."

"Damnit, man, leave it on!" Sam stomped up to Dean's bedside and fiddled with the mask before Dean slapped his hands away.

Sam blew a hank of hair out of his eyes in a frustrated huff and seemed to take stock for a moment before starting more kindly, "Look, we'll take care of it, Dean. This isn't any different from the last time. I'll – I mean, Bobby and I will take care of it."

That was all well and good. There weren't any other hunters that Dean would want working the case. However, the part where Dean wasn't personally there to watch Sam's back? That was a problem.

"When do we leave?" Dean asked, not removing the respiratory device so much as lifting the corner up.

"What did you say?" Sam couldn't have heard Dean correctly. It was the mask in the way, making it hard to understand him – surely.

"I heard the insanity too, Sam." Bobby said, shaking his head at Dean. "Boy…"

"I should get outta here. Come with….If you two are gonna road haul another spook, I'd like to see it." The long stretch of words made Dean break into another painful coughing fit. He felt the pull of the tube sticking out of his side, even though the area was still numb. "If nothin' the docs do is going to matter…"

"Just 'cause this is inflicted by a ghost don't mean you don't need to be here. If you haven't noticed, they're givin' you a lot of help to breathe, ya idjit." Bobby asked.

"I'm gonna be. . . a sitting duck here…." Dean complained. And he had a point, seeing as ghosts and germs were the least of Winchester worries at the moment. Still, Sam tried to reassure Dean.

"Until we get a bead on what this thing is, it makes more sense for you stay here and have a shot at feeling better, rather than sitting in a motel room and definitely getting worse. Also, you have a tube sticking out of your ribs." Sam reasoned. When Dean opened his mouth to start protesting anew, Sam held his hand up. "Look, man…I need to know you're not going to do anything stupid like sign yourself out while we do research on this."

Dean was going to give Sam a few choice words about who was close to doing something stupid, but it quickly dissolved into harsh coughing every time he tried until he finally shrugged his shoulders, apparently agreeing to stay put.

"Sam, the next interview I wanted to do is only an hour away from here. If we head out now we could be back before visiting hours are over." Bobby offered, gazing at his watch.

Sam let his eyes lock with his brother's. "Can we wait until they get him settled back upstairs?" There were other questions there too, hesitant and unsure. Can we wait until he's back on regular oxygen mask? Can we wait until we know the antibiotics are working? Can I stay with him longer – please? Sam knew that if Dean's sickness was related to a job, however, his best chance would be if Sam and Bobby could solve it. There was no getting around leaving.

"Yeah, sure." Bobby replied.

"Interview?" Dean prompted, indicating his wish to know more about his life or death situation.

"The current head of the Pennsylvania branch of the Legion. He lives out in Utica. I want to know more about what they have at this ceremony of theirs."

"Bobby, see if we can meet him at his meeting hall. This whole once a year, changing locale deal tracks more like a cursed or haunted object. Maybe there is something they are bringing with them that EMF will pick up." Sam was already off and rolling with a game plan, which made Dean smile. Sometimes he felt like Sam wasn't just his brother, but his child. It made sense, as he did pretty much raise the kid. It still caught him unawares sometimes, though, that feeling of overwhelming pride. Since Dean was back from Hell, that feeling didn't seem to come around as often as it once did. He missed it.

Sam caught Dean's tender-hearted expression. "What? You okay?"

Dean scratched his head. "Me? Yeah…good drugs."

Sam was saved from having to voice his disbelief when orderlies showed up, the same two guys as before with a nurse in tow. Dean gave a throaty chuckle, rather enjoying the awkward look on Sam's face at having to deal with the same hospital employees his brother was belligerent toward before.

Sam noticed the shit-eating grin on Dean's face and leaned in toward him with a grin of his own. "Hey, it's not me they are going to be wheeling down a hallway near staircases and walls and doors."

"Shit." Dean muttered, promptly offering a sheepish grin to the nearest orderly by way of apology.

"It's okay," one of the guys said. Sam noted it wasn't the guy who had the vomit pan tossed at him, but then – he couldn't blame that guy for not being warm and fuzzy. The nurse busied herself making sure none of Dean's tubing was attached to anything but him or the bed before he was rolled away, Sam and Bobby trailing after.

"We're going to have to be real careful about how we question these guys, Sam."

"Why more careful than any other time?" Sam waited to ask this until Dean was rolled onto the elevator and they stood around waiting for it to come back down.

"They are soldiers, Sam. Some of them are career military men. So, first – think about how you feel about Dean, because these folks are all brothers as far as they're concerned. And if you were being asked questions about Dean and someone wasn't respectful -"

"- I sure wouldn't be answering any more of their questions." Sam finished.

"To put it mildly." Bobby agreed.

"And the second thing?"

"Think about how much honor your brother and your dad felt is in our job. That's how many of them feel about their military careers. So, once again – all about respect, Sam. That means we're going to have to go in there with an unquestionable cover. We can't get called out on being fakes."

Sam was going to have to go with Bobby on this. What little his dad had spoken about the Marines had been with utmost reverence, for sure, but he'd never spoken about buddies he'd had, or his time in Vietnam. Sam pushed the thought from his mind, struggling to think up a cover story rather than focus the fact that his dad had been a very different person prior to the loss of his wife.

"Reporters doing a follow-up on the outbreak 30 years ago – comparing it to current pandemics?" It was the first thing that leapt to Sam's mind, the obvious choice.

"That works for the head of the Legion." Bobby concurred as both men stepped onto the elevator. "What about more current families? Those weren't associated with the original breakout."

"Huh." Sam was stumped. "Well, we're going to have to get records on the victims – to see if they had something in common. If there's a common thread, maybe we'll find something there we can use."

Bobby nodded. "I have some of the records already thanks to a buddy of mine at the veteran's hospital in Philadelphia. Most of them ended up transferred there, but we have a couple who went to private doctors."

"You have a health department ID or something you can use?" Sam asked.

He was rewarded with a stare of disbelief from the elder hunter.

"Do I look new to you?"

* * *

So, there you go. Plot. Ta-dah!


	13. No Mountain High, No Valley Low

**A/N:** The plot thickens. _::dramatic chord::_

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, more's the pity.

* * *

**Chapter 13**  
**Ain't No Mountain High, Ain't No Valley Low**

A little over two hours later Bobby and Sam were pulling up in front of a two-story gingerbread house turned Legion Hall. The place had more of an air of funeral home from the outside. Stepping into the foyer, both men were impressed at the obvious updated renovations that had taken place, including a well-stocked bar. The head of the Legion, Mr. Perry Travers, was obviously quite proud of the place as he took the time to give them a full tour of every last room. That worked just fine for Sam, who had the EMF on inside his jacket. He had adjusted the tone so it sounded enough like a phone to pass it off without suspicion. Still, it didn't ring at all as they made their way through the house.

"I know you said the article wasn't about the Legion itself, but it'd be a nice twist – I thought, if you mention how well we try and take care of our soldiers nowadays." Everything about Perry Travers screamed military man, right down to his ruler-straight posture and rhythmic walk. Sam found himself having to stop himself from marching in step with him, reminding himself that he was here to portray a reporter.

"That's an excellent point," Sam acknowledged, pretending to make a note in his spiral notepad. "We'll have to bring it up with our editor."

"Well, that would be wonderful! So, let's take a seat in here…" Travers led them into a small informal room furnished with an old leather couch. Once they were settled comfortably, Travers began pouring them coffee which had been laid out with cookies.

"So," Travers said. "What can I tell you exactly? The basic story of the outbreak, I'm sure you can get from anywhere."

Bobby thanked him for the coffee and set it down on worn oak side table, pulling out his notepad and looking all business. "We're looking to get a feel of how your dinner ceremonies go. We want to get a feel for the room – of those men getting together before they got sick. The comraderie is important to the story."

Agreeing fiercely, Travers nodded. "Well, usually we try to get together when there is a parade to welcome back soldiers."

Sam glanced at Bobby. He was remembering that the parade in town when they were in Philadelphia was for a unit coming back from Afghanistan.

Travers continued, "At least once a year, we have our big gathering – we try and time it to match other events, like we did this year. Members come from all over the state. It isn't only the Legion, it is the widows, sons and daughters. We have dinner, we talk, we laugh. Sometimes people give speeches. We've had karaoke a couple of times – nothing like seeing a Master Sargeant singing '_Ain't No Mountain High Enough'_ to put a smile on your face."

Both Bobby and Sam chuckled. For whatever reason, they both pictured John Winchester, the original drill sergeant, up on a stage singing his heart out.

Sam spoke up. "Is there anything that's like….a ritual?" This earned him an odd look from Travers so he quickly added, "I just mean, a prayer, or something you folks bring every time?"

"Normal prayers – we say the Pledge of Allegiance. We usually set up a table with lots of pictures of lost loved ones. Usually with some of the medals that belonged to the deceased. I know a few widows always bring the flags that honored their husbands."

Sam jumped on that. "Is there any way you could gives us a list of those families, especially families who had a loss around the time of first outbreak. I realize it may be a hard thing to talk about, but we'd really like to get a feel for the human aspect of the story."

Travers pondered this for a moment reluctantly, but Sam gave him those big dewy eyes that screamed 'You can trust me.'

"Alright."

They left with a list of three people to talk to. There were two widows and one son of a soldier; they all came every year, rain or shine, to remember their loved ones. Sam thought it was kind of nice. It was the same sentiment that had him visit his mother's grave. They got back in the car and Sam pulled out his phone to let Dean know they were on their way back. It went to voicemail.

"He's not answering." Sam's brow furrowed.

"The doctors probably took his phone away so he could get some shut eye. I told you not to let him get a phone with all the games on it."

"Hey, Dean distracted can be a good thing sometimes." Sam paused, "Maybe he's sleeping."

Bobby drove while Sam dove into research on his laptop. For Sam's last birthday Dean had sprung for a decent wireless card so he could get internet anywhere, instead of just depending on motels or coffee shops having WiFi, since they were often in areas that didn't have unsecured wireless connections. They could only pay for it sporadically, but when they did. . . life was so much easier.

The soldier whose son visited every year – he had died in an accident on the base where he was stationed in Korea.

The soldier of one of the widows had died in the States, not of Legionnaire's, but of complications from wounds sustained in Vietnam, an infection from amputation that ate up his leg and eventually killed him.

And then – yahtzee. The other widow – her husband had died of Legionnaire's. And she came every year. She was in a picture in a photo gallery on a random American Legion website, an older woman with perfectly curled hair. Sam's instinct leapt out at him as soon as he saw what she was clutching to her chest - a flag in a triangular glass case. There were pictures of her with that same case for every Pennsylvanian assembly stretching back for quite some time, always the same flag held sacredly in her hands.

"I think we have our ghost, Bobby. His name was Michael Cole."

Bobby glanced at Sam. "I think I remember that name from the files. Check the folder."

Sam sifted through the paperwork on his lap, trying not to jumble it up too badly. "Here we go. Michael Cole. Served in the Marines as a Corporal. He was in Vietnam for the fall of Saigon, no traumatic injuries reported, but they sent him back to the States after instead of keeping him in the area. He was in Philadelphia for the Bicentennial, got sick, and died on August 20th, 1976. Cremated remains given to his wife after a military funeral." Sam frowned, cremation a sign of a dead end.

"So, if it is him, he either has some remains lying around or we're dealing a pure haunted object, and those are pretty rare. Anything in there that tells us why he's killing people?"

"Not that I can see….oh, wait, the medications on here…Lithium, Haldol. Pretty heavy duty stuff. We need to see his psych file, Bobby. He was at the VA for some of it, but it looks like he went somewhere else for treatment too, the River Ridge Treatment Center."

Bobby pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. "Hey, Tim? Yeah, I hate to ask, but I'm gonna need another file if you can swing it."

There was a pause.

"Yeah, you know if it wasn't important I wouldn't be asking. Name is Michael Cole. Date of birth…"

"January 5th, 1948," Sam said.

"You heard that?" Bobby asked Tim. "Yeah, forty-eight. We're looking for the full psych file on this guy.

There was another pause in which Tim was sharing his reluctance.

"Yes, I'll burn it. I always do." Bobby rolled his eyes. "Look at it this way, if you lose your job, I lose my valuable connection." That seemed to calm Tim down some. "I'll let you know where to fax it. Thanks, Tim."

Bobby clicked his phone shut. "So, when we get back to the hospital, I'll find a fax and let him know where to send it. We can take a look at it tonight, see if we can make sense of why Corporal Cole is doing this."

"And why he has it out for Dean. I mean," Sam gestured at the paperwork in front of him of the folks who had died a ghostly demise in the past thirty-three years. "The vast majority of these guys are soldiers. Why choose someone else? Why is a ghost going to break pattern?"

"We'll look at the ones who weren't soldiers then and see if they had anything in common with everyone else. They were the ones with private doctors. I'm going to need my CDC badge to get those records."

Sam nodded, already calling Dean again – who still wasn't answering.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Not an uncomfortable one, but one of two men mulling things over in their minds – trying to work out a puzzle. After all those months alone (apart from Ruby), exorcising demons while he was trying to track down Lilith, Sam almost felt stupid.

_Stupid?_

Yes, stupid.

It felt good having Bobby next to him, working things out. And when Dean had died, he had completely shut him out. If he hadn't – he could have felt connected. He could've felt like he still had a family, instead of so utterly alone. Sam made a mental note: 'Next time, remember you have Bobby.'

_God, next time. Please let there not be a next time._

When they pulled up to the hospital, Bobby was clearly torn. Sam knew the look on his friend's weathered face all too well. He wanted to see how Dean was, but knew he needed to keep working the case. The sooner they got the information, the better.

"I'll call you in fifteen and let you know how he is." Sam promised, shifting his long legs outside the car.

Bobby nodded. "If there's a problem…"

"Then I'll be calling you about fifteen seconds after I find out there's a problem." Sam reassured.

"Okay. See you in a bit." Bobby gave Sam a short salute and revved the engine. He was smiling so big that his grizzled beard tickled the corners of his mouth. Sure, the situation was a pile of dung. But the car…the car was still an amazing piece of machinery.

* * *

**:::**


	14. Purgatory

**Chapter 14**

**Purgatory**

**:::**

Sam walked up through the hallways of the hospital, a buzzing in his pocket. He hoped it was Dean calling him back, but no – it was a text from Ruby. Sam sighed. He almost didn't want to read it. It wasn't like he could leave his brother if there was a lead on Lilith.

_How's Dean?_

Huh. Small talk with the demon girl.

Sam texted back, _Ghost sick, again. Life or death, again._

_He needs to find a happy medium_, Ruby wrote back.

Sam snorted. Yes, that was true. It was nearly always Life or Death, Heaven or Hell. Sam couldn't believe, no matter how dangerous hunting was, that it was like this for all hunters. Winchester luck had to come into play, taking them from one extreme to the other. It'd be nice to just kick around in Purgatory for awhile.

Sam made his way up to Dean's floor, taking the stairs this time rather than the incredibly slow elevator. The sounds of people sounding like they were about to take their last breaths echoed around the corridor. His long legs loped down the hallway to where he hoped to see Dean asleep. Instead, he found his brother laying on his side, curling around a vomit basin, a nurse hovering over him. Somehow his brother was managing to look blue and green and red at the same time, the odd colors in his pallor making his eyes seem duller than Sam remembered them being before.

"Hey, what happened?" Sam asked softly, crossing the room and putting his messenger bag on the nearest chair.

Dean immediately tried to sit up further when he realized Sam was in the room, and just as quickly had both the nurse and Sam pushing him back down. When Sam pulled his hand away it was wet, clammy…his brother was sweating, flushed. Clearly the fever had gone up.

The nurse gazed at Sam. "The doctor hasn't come in yet, but it is probably a reaction to the medication."

Dean tried to sit up the best he could – ignoring admonishing looks from both his brother and his caretaker, but still ended up curling forward toward the basin, swallowing hard against the nausea.

"Hospital food. . . tastes about the same in or out, Sam." A grin endeavored to cross Dean's face, but it ended up being just a quick twitch on his lips.

This was part of what Sam hated most about hospitals, the fact that within a stone's throw there was stuff that would make a person feel better, but you always had to wait for a doctor's orders – and that could take hours. Sam sat down next to Dean and gazed up at the nurse. "I'll sit with him, can you go get his doctor?"

"Sure. Need anything, just push the button."

Dean sat there staring at the basin as the nurse left – not even checking her ass out as she walked away. His eyes were glued to the pink plastic container that needed to be emptied and whose bilious contents were not helping his nausea at all. Sam did not fail to notice and quickly scooped up the basin and rinsed it out in the room's small sink.

He plopped it back down in front of Dean. "There you go."

Dean was going to say thank you, but his stomach had other ideas as it clenched and reversed its contents into the freshly cleaned tub. At this point it was all mucus and bile and painful dry heaves after that. When the retching ceased, leaving him gasping for breath, he was that same dusky hue that had been so worrisome in the gas station parking lot. Sam glanced up at the computer screen that was keeping tabs on his brother's vitals, where it registered a sharp drop in his oxygen levels.

"We need to put the oxygen back on you, man." Sam resisted the urge to run his hand through Dean's hair like you would a child, a comforting motion that he was damn sure Dean would kill him for.

"Just . . . hafta. . . take it off . . . when I puke…" Dean's voice ground out the words in annoyance, but it was barely a whisper.

"So, we take it off. But in the meantime, you wear it." Sam stated firmly.

Sam was happy to see that they had put Dean back on a much smaller oxygen mask in his absence, a sign that there was some improvement, proof that the surgery actually did something positive. He helped his brother scooch back up on the bed, pushing the buttons to mechanically raise the head. Sam went to put the mask back on him, but Dean grabbed it.

"I got it," he grumbled.

"Okay." Sam settled for gently punching Dean in the knee, his fingers fiddling with the blankets awkwardly, trying to figure out the best way to bring up what was on his mind. "Er, Dean, do you think we should ask the angels to help you out?"

Dean broke out in a coughing fit of pure surprise. "NO!"

Sam pulled a face as Dean lifted the mask to spit blood-tinged green phlegm into the basin. "I just think, if they can help you… "

"Sam, no way. After Anna, after . . . just, _no_."

Sam merely nodded while Dean caught his breath. He couldn't really blame Dean. The last time they encountered the angels they threatened to toss Dean back into the Pit and kill Sam. These were clearly not folks to whom you wanted to owe a damned thing. More than that, Sam remembered the quick glimpse of panic that had crossed Dean's face when Anna had first repeated the celestial threat of hurling Dean back to Hell. Wide-eyed terror that, apart from the Fear Infection, Sam had never seen appear within Dean's structured features before, not even right before the hellhounds started chomping. Sam supposed it was one thing to have a vague idea of Hell, and quite another to know exactly what you'd be going back to.

"So . . . where's Bobby?" Dean asked.

"Working your case." At the mention of Bobby, Sam's thumbs went to work texting their friend to let them know Dean was mostly alright.

"Got a lead from Legion-Guy?"

"Yeah, we think we know who the ghost is. Bobby's working on getting some intel so we can figure out why."

"And why me?" Dean asked, a wry grin darting across his face.

"And why you." Sam concurred.

"Who d'ya think it is?"

"A soldier named Michael Cole. Bobby's getting his records." Sam stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, not able to help the giant yawn that emerged as he let his long form sprawl out in the chair.

"Soldier, huh?" Dean glanced at Sam.

Sam caught something in his brother's tone and immediately sat upright again. "Yeah, a soldier, why?"

Dean chuckled sheepishly. "I was dreaming about a guy," He swallowed thickly and pulled the plastic bin closer for a moment before deciding it was safe to continue. "He was in uniform, y'know?"

"You're just thinking to mention this now?" Sam huffed in exasperation.

"I dunno, dude." Dean stopped then, admitting something that clearly cost him. "I dream about _a lot_ of people."

"Oh," Sam said. His brother's implication was clear enough – he dreamed of the people he tortured in Hell. Sam wanted to say something – reassuring or comforting, but he didn't know what to say to make it okay that his brother carried the torture of thousands of souls with him. Mostly because there weren't words that could make it okay.

The awkward silence was interrupted when Doogie walked in, still swinging his arms like a little kid. "Hey, guys!"

A look of confusion crossed Sam's face. "I thought you worked in the ER."

"Usually. They needed the coverage here for a few days, though. Doing folks a favor. So, how are you feeling, Dean? The nurse came and told me your stomach is giving rebel yells worse than Billy Idol."

Dean chuckled. At least the kid's taste in music was old enough to be in a white coat. "Yeah, something like that."

"Did you have any nausea before you were put on the antibiotics?"

"A little..._nothing_ like this." The words were becoming stuck in Dean's throat, hesitation building as excess saliva began heralding the upchucking that was soon to follow.

"I'll call Dr. Ferguson about changing the antibiotics, if we can. But I can order something to ease the nausea in the meantime. How are you doing with pain?"

Dean glanced at Sam, which Doogie noticed. The young doctor knew the dynamic from his own brotherly experiences. 'Big brother never hurts worse than he can handle himself' seemed to be part of a universal paradigm.

"Vomiting with the chest tube can't feel good, right?" Doogie offered.

Dean stifled his automatic response, '_How'd you think it feels, sport?!_' and settled for shaking his head, agreeing that it did not feel good. Not at all.

"Okay, well, I'll order an additional couple milligrams of morphine over what you're getting. I wish we could give more, but your oxygen levels are our primary concern. The nurse will be in with it soon, and I'll see what Dr. Ferguson says about the antibiotics, alright?"

Dean couldn't help but like the kid. He found himself reminded of Sam before he went and got so huge – the wiry, lanky kid who left for college.

"I'll be around, guys. Need anything, the nurse'll come get me. Any questions before I go?" Doogie hung out in the doorframe for a little bit, a certain wistfulness in his posture.

"Just one." Dean said.

"Shoot." The young physician said with a grin.

"This favor . . . trading shifts . . . " Dean had to stop, his mind wanting desperately to keep talking so he could confirm his silly suspicion, his body trying to decide if it wanted to cough or puke. It didn't matter, though. Sam knew what question he wanted answered. And though Sam was blushing and apologetic while he was asking it, it got asked all the same.

"My brother," Sam met Doogie's eyes with an apologetic gaze, "My _incorrigible_ brother just wants to know if you traded shifts to get in the good graces of a woman. He's preferring it is a nurse."

Sam noticed the kid's face fall a little. "You really don't have to answer, man."

"Huh, no . . . it just sounds like . . . I mean, not the question I was expecting, I guess. My brother would've asked the same thing."

"Why isn't he around to show you the ropes?" asked Dean. It was impetuous, sure, and none of his business – but hey, he was bored in this bed. A little family drama that didn't involve his own family could serve as a nice distraction.

"Cancer." Doogie said, matter-of-factly.

Sam winced. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, was a couple years ago."

"Still, though . . . sorry," said Dean. He had wanted to poke a little fun at the baby-faced doc, sure, but his intent was never to make him feel bad. The kid continued answering the original question. "Yeah. She's…yeah. Not a nurse, though, a doctor."

"Niiiice." Dean rasped approvingly. "Anyone we woulda seen yet?"

Sam supposed that maybe that was the kid's boundary line, pointing out which of the staff had his heart, because this time he just stayed blushing and made no movement to indicate he was going to answer as he studied the shiny linoleum.

"Well, we should probably know your name, right, doc? Especially if my brother here is hatching plans to assure your victory over the fairer sex," said Sam.

"Uhh, Dr. Aiken." The kid replied, tapping the ID badge that was half-hidden by a truly garish tie.

"Your _name_ name, Whiz Kid." Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Ross. Sorry."

A thousand cool things came to Dean's mind to close the conversation – about how Ross was now guaranteed the chance to play Dr. Feel Good, etc… instead the only thing that came out of Dean's mouth was more vomit and that wasn't cool in the slightest.

"I'm gonna go put in the orders for those meds. We'll go over the romantic plan of attack later, okay?" With hardly a moment in between – a shy blushing kid called Ross metamorphosed into the Dr. Aiken that probably got respect from staff and patients alike. You could see it in his face as he stepped out of the room, suddenly taking care of his patient was paramount. It was the same look of jaw-tensed determination that often crossed the brothers' faces when they were trying to beat the clock to save lives.

Sam handed Dean a facecloth to wipe his mouth and a glass of water so he could rinse and spit the bitter taste of bile out. He shook his head, his expression remaining serious.

Panting a bit, Dean gazed up at his brother. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's stupid."

"So, then tell me anyway and I'll laugh at your stupidity." And there it was, the eager-beaver boyish grin that Sam hardly saw at all nowadays.

"I was just thinking, it is kind of unfair. You always get beat on the hardest, or the sickest, or hexed…." Sam's tone was nothing if not laden with guilt.

"Hey, big brothers are always at the front of the line." Dean made his tone light, trying to reassure Sam. He felt that's what he spent half the time doing nowadays. One half yelling at the kid for giving in to his psychic freakiness, the other half trying to get that god-awful look off his face – the look that clearly stated, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The same look he was wearing now which clearly illustrated that his Big Brother ruling wasn't helping at all.

For the life of him, Dean couldn't think what to say to make it better. And it was kind of hard to think of something heartwarming to say when it was your stomach that was doing all the talking. So, for awhile they just sat together – Sam getting the routine down of bucket-emptying and water-glass-handing, until at long last the nurse came in with blessed Make-Your-Guts-Behave meds, along with the Please-Remove-The-Hedge-Clippers-From-My-Side pain medication.

Within moments of the deft injections into his IV port, Dean's color improved and the many furrows that came from having a pain-lined face began to ease out.

"Y'know, Sam, if it makes you feel any better, you always got the more humiliating injuries."

"Hrm?" Sam looked up, not expecting his brother to be continuing the previous conversation.

"Well, you had the splinter in your ass that time…" Dean reminded him.

"You try having a spirit haul you up and down the broadside of a barn. I had more splinters than just in my ass. That was just the one place that was…"

"Memorable?" Dean offered.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dad tweezing a three inch plank out of my backside is something I'll look back on fondly."

"Do you remember when you scratched your cornea . . . the eye patch?" Dean snickered, while Sam simply gave a good-natured groan.

"How could I forget, man? How many pirate jokes can one person crack?"

"Ahhh, good times, good times." Dean was giving a reminiscent grin one moment and seized up in a long spell of phlegm-spewing hacking the next, a reminder that the brothers weren't just hanging out in some motel room yukking it up.

Dean closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the presence of his brother hovering, obtrusive by just how unobtrusive his younger sibling was trying to be.

"Well, you _were_ looking better."

Dean just responded with a 'mmmm' of agreement, concentrating on taking slow breaths of oxygen.

"Hey, boys." Bobby entered the room quietly, holding several thick manila folders piled on top of each other.

"Hey, Bobby." Sam half-turned in his chair as their old friend walked in and cleared Dean's duffle off of one of the other chairs. "You get all the info?"

"Near as I can tell. How's he doing?" Bobby nodded his head toward the bed-bound Winchester.

"He's awake . . . can ask yourself." Dean grunted, trying not to make his voice sound weak or breathy.

"Well, silly me – seeing as your eyes were closed, I made an assumption. Ya idjit." Bobby snapped peevishly. Granted, Dean was sick. Granted, Dean never dealt all that well with being out of commission and needing to be taken care of. It had been a helluva long couple days for the older hunter, though, and since they still hadn't figured out exactly what was what with this case – it was putting him on edge, to say the least.

Dean didn't miss the stressed out tone in his friend's voice and he struggled to push himself up on his elbows so he could read Bobby's face better, catching his eye so he could offer unsaid apologies.

Bobby sighed and offered Dean a quick smile before handing one of the folders to Sam and other to Dean. "The psychiatric records of a spook - get reading, boys."

* * *

**:::**

Reviews Appreciated!


	15. Breakfast of Champions

**A/N: **Answers to your questions.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. More's the pity.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

**Breakfast of Champions**

Glad to have something to do besides wheeze, Dean picked up the research with enthusiasm. The hours ticked by, Sam already having gotten permission for Bobby and himself to stick around past visiting hours, using untapped lawyering ability to argue in their favor. They only realized how many hours had gone by when Dean began to look green around the gills again, heralding the need for more anti-nausea medication. Sam tried to pull the file in Dean's hands away from him.

"Hey, man. Time to get some rest."

"You two are looking worse than I am. Least I can do is join the party." Dean said unconvincingly, swallowing back the acrid taste of bile as his fingers clutched more firmly on the pages.

"Dude, you can re-join the party after you get some meds and some sleep. It isn't going to bode well for the research if you hurl all over it."

True enough. Dean had been fighting sleep for a bit anyway, the push to keep reading making his headache worse. Dean handed his stack with his accompanying notes to Sam with a sigh. "Lemme know if you find anything?"

"Who else am I going to gloat to when I find the answer before Bobby does?" Sam grinned impishly at Dean.

A mumbled 'we'll see about that, kid' came from the other side of the room where Bobby was sitting with several stacks of paper in front of him.

Sam and Bobby worked in silence, going back and forth to the nurse's station for cups of coffee they were told that they were welcome to. Occasionally, one of their heads would pop up to mention some random fact about Michael Cole. They spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Dean up – he already was waking himself up every thirty minutes from the coughing. When the wheezing and gasping had gotten particularly bad, the nurse came in to force another nebulizer on Dean, which kept him awake and coughing for another hour, but it was more productive coughing and he seemed to sleep more deeply after that.

The plan of attack the two hunters were using didn't seem to be working, although they had a pretty good outline of various hospitalizations, all psychiatric. Sam felt bad for the guy. It wasn't like Cole had been an evil person. He'd been a troubled young man before he even enlisted in the army, but had come back from Vietnam broken.

Sam sat up straighter, trying to work out the soreness caused by slouching for hours in the uncomfortable chair, and blew out a huff of frustration. They were sitting there listening to his big brother struggle for breath and seemed no closer to an answer. He rubbed his eyes, blinking blearily at the notes in front of him.

"Maybe if we look at it from another angle?" Sam suggested. "There's just too much stuff to go through here to figure out motive. When he was manic and off his meds, the guy saw everyone as a threat."

"So, what's the new angle?" Bobby's voice was rough from disuse and lack of sleep.

"Well, we said we were going to look at all the people that weren't soldiers – see what they had in common. You had that list, right?"

"Um, yeah, here." Bobby pulled one folder. "We can split it. Five in all, not counting Dean."

They sat in silence for a moment, each making their own notes on the profiles of the various deceased. "Bobby, how often does post traumatic stress come up in the records of all the enlisted men?"

"Often?" Bobby replied, not really looking up from his own notes.

"How often is often?" Sam lowered his pen.

Bobby flipped through his paperwork. "More than half. Maybe all of them. It wasn't listed as a diagnosis until the early 1980s, so folks before then wouldn't necessarily have it listed as the syndrome itself – but the flashbacks, the paralyzing fear, that's in their records. But, like I said before, Sam, that wasn't uncommon for soldiers, especially the men who saw action."

"Okay, well – there's something. Jeremy Bishop, firefighter who got caught in a blaze and stayed out of the workforce for two years on psychiatric leave. Vera Strathmore, a police officer needed intensive therapy after she was, ouch, beaten and gangraped. You have any like that?"

Bobby sucked in a breath, eyes skimming the profiles in front of him. "Well, I'll be damned! They all have something."

"Okay, so all our victims had some tragedy in their life, something severe enough to mess them up. Not all of them ended up in hospitals or on medication, but I'm sure we could argue PTSD."

"Wait a minute!" Bobby exclaimed, heart thumping in his chest. "Wait just a damn minute…" He spent a few minutes flipping through Cole's files. "C'mon, c'mon…"

"What, Bobby?" Sam asked, confused.

"Shhh, don't want to lose my train of thought…." Several long minutes later, Bobby finally found what he was looking for and began reading aloud. "Patient apathetic, severely depressed. States 'no one should have to remember things like I remember. The only way to end the memories is to die. I wish I could save us all. End all the pain for everyone.'" Bobby looked up at Sam meaningfully.

"So, his spirit is picking people with Post Traumatic Stress, or close to it…"

"Not only that, Sam, but they all fit a certain archetype. Soldiers, obviously. But even the civilians have jobs that are about protecting people and heading into dangerous situations to do it. Firefighters, police..."

"Suppose we know why he picked Dean, then. A hunter who is constantly willing to give above and beyond, and who remembers actual Hell." Sam sighed sadly.

He knew about the nightmares Dean had nearly every night, the drinking to forget, the single-minded pursuit of hunting - to find some peace, some distraction. He'd never stopped to equate it with something as – _big_ - as PTSD. Sam held in his hands the files of people who were shattered by the things they had gone through, who would have never been the same – even if they had been given the opportunity to live full lives. Was his brother among them?

There was a part of him which immediately answered yes. It was Hell and it wasn't going to be something anyone just got over. More and more, Dean didn't seem to be the brother he knew, the brother who was always impossibly strong. Maybe it was the last ghost sickness that was nudging Sam toward that judgment and he felt terribly guilty about that. It was horribly unfair to judge Dean on the basis of reactions that were well out of his control. But, maybe that wasn't the only reason Sam felt that way. For awhile now, he had been feeling like he was the stronger one. Hell, Ruby was implying it constantly. The one time she had just outright said it to him, he stopped talking to her for a week.

And no, it wasn't just that Dean's fear had found its way to the surface time and time again. It was the utter exhaustion that seemed to follow him around (that Dean even seemed to embrace). World-weary, as an entry in the dictionary, would absolutely have one of Dean's mugshots next to it. So, yeah – part of Sam came very close to concluding that Dean very well could be shattered beyond recognition.

There was the other part of Sam, however, the part that would always doggedly look up to his older brother, the part of himself that made him stop talking to Ruby for that week, that desperately clung to the idea that Dean was okay, strong – stronger than most – and if anyone could face Hell and come out intact – it was him.

Still, here it was. This ghost only picked on folks it wanted to save from the horrible memories that punished them daily, people it felt were truly better off dead than reliving their pasts. And it chose Dean. It was evidence enough.

When Sam came out of his reverie, Bobby was looking at him, wearing the same sort of sad realization on his grizzled face, so he didn't ask whether Sam was okay. He simply clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by, mumbling something about how he was going to the motel to get some rest and how Sam should do the same.

Sam fell asleep, his body draped heavily across Dean's bed, oblivious to the nurses that kept coming in to check his brother's vitals or give him more medication. Eventually he woke up to the rumble of Dean trying to stifle his coughing so that he wouldn't jostle Sam around. Sam sat up slowly, checking the time on his cell phone, swore to himself when he realized he had slept way longer than he had intended. He glanced up at Dean to find he was being laughed at, the laugh setting the held-back cough loose.

"You have waffle-face, Sammy!" Dean crowed in glee in between the disease-ridden bursts of air.

Sam brought a hand up to his face, grinning as he felt the lines embedded in his skin. It was an old family joke from the many hospital visits they'd all had. One Winchester was always falling asleep at another one's side, face pressed sweatily into the pattern of the woven thermal blanket, and coming up looking like they'd been branded personally by the Eggo company.

"Seems I do. How're you feeling?"

"Better. Little less Pukey McPukerson. They got rid of that horrible crap from yesterday, started me on something new…Levitate? Something like that."

"I'll find out when I talk to the doctor later." Sam replied, shaking his head. Trust Dean to give modern medicine supernatural names. Sam gazed at his older brother, taking him in. "You sound better."

And he did. The dying accordion wheeze was still horribly present, the terrible thick coughing, but Dean seemed able to string together a sentence now without pausing to gasp for air.

"Just finished one of those nebu-whats-its bong things 'bout ten minutes ago." Dean explained. "Bobby stopped by earlier, said to call him. That guy's widow lives forty-five minutes away." Dean was panting by the end of the message and put the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth with an eye roll before Sam could say a word about it. So, maybe he was only slightly better.

"He didn't go to finish it off by himself, did he?" Sam frowned.

"Naw, he said he was going to get some firm intel on where the flag is." Dean gave Sam a pained look. "Are we sure it's the flag…?"

"Fairly sure. From the checking we could do, she definitely brings it with her to every Legion event, so unless Cole is hitching a ride on something in her purse…" Sam trailed off. "It's our only solid lead on it. Why?"

Dean chuckled to himself the sound muffled behind the rubbery plastic. "I just feel like I expect Dad to come back from the beyond just to beat our asses for burning Ol' Glory like that."

"Yeah." Sam said soberly. "It does seem wrong. But, if it'll save your life, I'll take a little wrong." It was a statement that was meant to be comforting, a testament that they both were willing to bend over backwards, sacrifice personal morals, as long as it was for each other. Instead Dean regarded him quietly, as if trying to unearth how much wrong Sam was willing to give himself over to.

In the end, it was still Dean who broke the awkward silence. "So, why me?"

Sam bit his lip. "The jist of it is …soldiers who have been through a lot, who have been through more than most people can handle – we think that Cole is trying to end their misery." Sam idly rubbed at a coffee spill darkening his worn jeans, not meeting Dean's eyes.

"Jist…?" Dean let the unsaid question hang there – since when did he not get the full story?

_And since when are you looking at me like I'm a goddamn drowning kitten?_

"I dunno, man, I'm tired. Bobby and I were up pretty late last night."

"Uh-huh." Dean replied, the disbelief solid in his still crackling voice. "Go back to the motel for a bit, shower, get a little more sleep, some food."

All those things sounded good to Sam. Bobby would be gone for at least a couple of hours. Maybe it would be enough time to get Ruby here, to get his edge back – so that he felt like he could face his brother, nevermind face Lilith. He wanted to deny the urge, to immediately protest, sincerely, that he'd rather hang out with Dean, but the words just weren't coming. All he could think of was the possibility, however remote, that Ruby would get here and he'd feel her thick metallic heat dripping down the back of his throat, the controlled _drip-drip-drip_ of the blood when she playfully held her arm out, giving him back the feeling that it was within his power to fix the world, fix his brother. It caught him at odd moments, the realization that fixing himself never came up. Either way, the urge was there – _now_ – nearly taunting him.

"You sure?" Sam asked, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his greasy head. "A shower sounds pretty good."

"Yeah, man." Dean's eyes were firmly on Sam's every fidget. "Just, leave the research with me. I can help while I'm awake."

"Yeah, sure." Sam said, because it was all he could say. To not have to have the "are you a broken shell of a man" conversation, frankly, was a bit of a relief. Cowardly, maybe, but he'd rather have Dean piece it together on his own than have to flat out tell him…'Gee, the ghost's vics are people who have been severely traumatized. By the way, brother, you fit that profile' and have an angry Dean denying everything anyway.

"Okay, well, I'm gonna go talk to one of your nurses – let them know to call me if anything changes. If you need anything, call. We'll see if you can keep down a burger later?"

"Sounds good." Dean replied, his mouth still in a firm line. He knew damn well something was up with his sibling. The way Sam was looking at him - it was near pitying, and Dean didn't do that from anyone, least of all his baby brother.

"Okay, then." Sam nodded, collecting the key files and notes that had brought the crucial information to light and handing them to Dean. "Back in a few hours."

Dean just nodded.

As soon as Sam left the room, Dean muttered under his breath. "Tell Ruby I said hello."

**:::**

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So, there's your why. Reviews Appreciated!


	16. This Is Your Life

**A/N:** This switches viewpoints a lot...so, yeah, sorry.

* * *

**Chapter 16**

**This Is Your Life**

Bobby was not happy, not by a long shot, as he peered through binoculars from the foreclosed house across the street. The widow, it seemed, viewed her deceased husband's burial flag like the Crown Jewels. Or maybe she was a clairvoyant who knew that someday a couple of strangers were going to break into her house to burn it.

Point was, there was security everywhere, and that was just from the cursory examination Bobby did on the outside. There was the very high-end alarm system, which Sam would probably have a better shot at figuring out. Bobby was no slouch when it came to disarming armed men, but disarming alarms… it made his neck twitch. He always ended up second-guessing himself, and the last thing you want during a hunt is to be standing there like a moron with pliers in your hand, staring at an open alarm box, begging the cops pull up or the critter you're after to get the jump. He'd probably be better at them, not so skittish, if he had more experience, but most of the jobs Bobby tended to take were in more rural communities. The high-end 'cut the blue wire' type systems had only ever come up once or twice.

Besides the alarm, the glass-encased flag seemed to be in a larger glass case which had a code combination lock. The only reason Bobby had even caught that tidbit, was because apparently Mrs. Cole (who was still Mrs. Cole after all these years) took Stars and Stripes out once a day to stroke the case lovingly, talk to it for awhile, wipe any smudges off of the glass and replace it carefully in the more secure display. Many people would have thought she was nuts, and perhaps she was, but Bobby couldn't help the pang of sympathy that rose within him. He knew what it was to bury a spouse, and like he and his late wife had been when tragedy truck, the Cole's had been a young couple. One moment you counted on having your whole future together, the next you're alone. If Bobby hadn't had hunting to throw himself into, the quest to prevent what happened to his family from happening to anyone else's, he may have gone the same way as the lady he was currently spying on.

Back on task - locks and alarms were one thing. You can pretext your way into someone's home, tell them you're from the alarm system's company. If you're good enough they'll let you into their underwear drawer, nevermind their safe. Sam wouldn't have a problem doing that. No, it was the Doberman that was the unpredictable factor. And as Bobby witnessed when the mailman came, the dog only had a sweet disposition for its owner. Everyone else seemed to be walking kibble. Shit.

A sudden buzzing in his pocket startled him, almost making him drop his binoculars. Bobby glanced at the number – Sam's.

"Hey, Sam, everything okay? How's Dean?"

"He looks a better. I talked to his doctor. They changed his meds. Oxygen sats are still a little low, but stable. Fever is stable. They're going to get him down to radiology later on, take a look at his chest to see how much progress he's making, if they can take the tube out yet. How are things looking on your end?"

"Like it is going to be a real pain in the ass. Security on top of security. After I finish up here, I'm going to see what I can do about getting more info from the alarm company, blueprints, maybe. See if I can find out how hard it'll be get them to turn it off, get us a little window of opportunity. Then I'm off to the racetrack."

"We have a lead there or are you just feeling lucky?"

"Nope, Mrs. Michael Cole has an angry-lookin' Doberman. Track is the easiest place to pick up some horse tranquilizers when we don't have a horse."

"Fair enough."

"You still at the hospital?"

"I'm actually gonna grab us a motel here in town. Gonna shower, grab some non-hospital food. You know the drill."

"Already got us one. Comfort Inn. It's on 27 west. Right near a shopping complex. Can't miss it. We're in room 46. I tucked the key in your laptop bag while you were sleeping."

Sam's hand immediately began patting down the outside pocket of his bag. Sure enough, he felt something key-shaped. "Thanks, Bobby."

"'Course." The elder hunter acknowledged gruffly.

"You gonna be back in time for a late lunch?" Sam asked. "Should I wait for you, get us both something?"

"Naw, you go ahead. Like I said, I have a few more things to do. I'll meet you at the hospital later on."

"Okay. Check back with you later."

"Sure." Bobby flipped his phone shut, peering once again through his binoculars with a sigh.

**:::**

**:::**

Sam could hardly wait until Bobby disconnected before he was dialing the next number. It took until his third ring for Ruby to pick up.

"Well, if it isn't tall, dark, and geeky."

"Hey. You in the area?"

"Absolutely. You got a motel we can use?"

At this Sam faltered. He didn't want to bring Ruby back to where he and Bobby were staying. Ruby must have figured that was why he was hesitating.

"Don't worry about it. They wouldn't understand, and you can explain it better _after_ you've saved the world from Lilith. I know a place. From the hospital take the main road south, I'll text you the rest of the directions in a bit. And, Sam? It'll be good to see you."

Before Sam could even reply, there was a click on the line that told Sam that Ruby disconnected.

Sam followed the texted directions to what looked like a train yard. He would've been sure he was at the wrong place, except he saw the familiar yellow muscle car parked outside. The door swung open and Ruby stepped out, her range of motion slightly inhibited by the skin-tight jeans she had poured herself into.

"Like it? Welcome to the Caboose Motel. We're in that one." Ruby pointed at caboose her car was parked outside of, a red one that had a pair of Adirondack chairs laid out on the its end like it was the back porch.

The inside was a surprise – fully furnished with a king size bed, a headboard that was an old train track, a bathroom installed with the normal motel amenities. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear he was not standing in a caboose. Yeah, he had to admit, this motel had a certain charm to it.

Now came the awkward part. Ever since Sam had finally told her he was back with the program, the full program – blood and all, Ruby had taken to not pushing it on him at all. Now it was up to Sam to say he wanted it, or god forbid, admit that he was starting to need it a little too. When he was close to her like this, close and running on empty, it was almost unbearable. He could already taste the copper in his mouth, and he began wiping at his lips, salivating as the prospect of sating his need.

Sam's mind flitted with the many arguments for and against what he was about to do. Usually he'd do this when there was a heavy-league demon in town that he needed to take out or get information from. But now, why now? Lilith wasn't even in the country. Alastair wasn't here. This wasn't a seal they were protecting, it was taking out a spook. He'd never even tried, never even needed, to use his powers against a spirit. It was the standard drill since childhood – research, interviews, salt and burn.

So, why now? Except…Dean was laid up in the hospital, barely able to breathe. Any demon could get in there and take him out. Sam needed to be at his best, at his strongest to protect his brother, to finish this case. It was all depending on him.

Well, that wasn't quite right, was it?

Bobby was there. More correctly, Bobby was _out_ there, in the field right now working to help Dean, while he was holed up in a caboose.

Sam did appreciate Bobby, more than he could express, but it was Dean and him who were brothers, who needed to have each other's backs. And this ghost saw all too clearly how broken Dean really was. No, it was up to Sam to protect him, to help him put the pieces back together again. And in just a moment, he'd be strong enough that he could do that.

But why did he need the blood for that? Since when did he need demon blood (or, for that matter, any kind of supernatural assistance) to be strong enough to be Dean's brother?

The answer came – clear as day.

Since Sam was so weak that his brother went to Hell for him.

Sam grabbed the knife Ruby offered and drank deep.

**:::**

**:::**

Dean pored over the case notes, his fingers turning ink-stained due to the sweat pouring off his clammy hands, ignoring the din around him as he was poked and prodded, ignoring well-meaning (but incredibly nosy) questions about what he was working on. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He found the reason. He found Michael Cole. He found why him.

At first, anger thundered through him, assaulting his brain like the headache that was already pounding in his cranium.

_Was that really what they thought? Well, fuck them!_

Dean wanted to bloody his knuckles punching someone.

"PTSD, my ass!" Dean wheezed aloud.

Maybe in his case it stood for _Pretty Terrific Sexual Dalliances_. Or, _Party Time, Sam_ you _Douche_. Dean smirked, the anger still thrumming through him as he remembered the look of pitying concern in Sam's eyes. His brother thought he was that weak, that scarred? Bobby, too? A Warrior of God had pulled him out of Hell, because God thought he was strong enough to help stop the friggin' apocalypse! Or had everyone just magically forgotten that?

Dean's eyes continued to scan Sam's notes, hurt and indignation making it difficult to focus on the words. 'Symptoms'…

_Oh._

The more he read, the more it was him.

The self-doubt and loathing that were always within him reared their ugly heads, the anger that had been flooding him swept away, leaving him the stark emptiness he was constantly trying to fill. He felt overheated and heavy, the guilt weighing on every inch of his skin.

They were right. Maybe he was that weak, that broken. He certainly was weak enough that he had taken Alastair's deal. It would be arrogant to assume he could just leave that glaring vulnerability behind. No, it was chained to him, hooked into his flesh.

_"Of course they're right, soldier. You knew that all along."_

Dean snapped his head up, startled to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him in a hollow voice that wasn't his own.

The problem with hallucinations, fever dreams, is that you will swear up and down they are the real thing until you're on the other side of it and firmly in reality again. A soldier in full dress uniform, a Corporal from the looks of the chevron on his sleeve, stood at the end of his bed, shaking his head sadly at Dean. With more than sadness, with familiarity. Goosebumps travelled quickly across the ailing hunter's skin at the change in temperature. Dean was suddenly pretty sure that he wasn't imagining things. Really pretty sure. Maybe.

"Hey, Mikey." Dean quirked his lip up into a smile as it began trembling from the shivering overtaking his body.

_"You don't belong here, Dean. You remember every slice and jab, every howl of every animal allowed to claw at you, every violation. That's not all though, huh? You remember everything you were pushed to do to everyone else, everything they turned you into. Give in, please. Aren't you tired of having to wake up and face this every single day?"_

"Just need a nap, but thanks for your concern." Dean quipped. The truth was written behind his faltering crooked smile, though. He was exhausted from facing Hell and some days he didn't know how he made it out of bed.

_"I want to help you. Let me help you. Why would you want to remember these things for as long as you live? Come with me, I can make it better."_

Dean felt his lungs seize, the sudden icy quality of the air making everything tighter and so much harder to breathe. Not good, so not good. Maybe this wasn't real, though. Sam's notes seemed to indicate he could be having a panic attack or a whacked out dissociative episode. Not that the cause mattered, because whether Soulja Boy over here was reality or not, Dean was having problems getting a breath. A problem amplified when the constant hiss of oxygen died down to nothing, the rush of air ceasing to travel through the mask.

The Corporal repeated his offer. _"It is so much worse for you than any of the others. Come with me, let go. It'll be better."_

Filtering in through haze in the shadowy corner of the room – Alastair, distant shrieks echoing.

"I brought you a present, Dean. Our own little version of 'This is Your Life'. You did so well with that first little tart as an appetizer, I thought you could use some encouragement. Purely selfish, you see. We have to make sure you're on the right track. You remember sweet little Abby, don't you? Bela?"

It was unfolding just as it did in those first days, months, after Dean first stepped off of the rack. The sight of Bela Talbot strapped down in front of him had him scrabbling backward, feeling his feet cut against the sharp volcanic rock beneath him. Or maybe not. He was in bed, wasn't he? Some hospital in Pennsylvania? Not back there. Not here – with her.

He felt Alastair grab his hair, the voice sneering in his ear. "Now, now Dean – I got you a present and you turn your nose up at it? I saved her just for you. She was ready for a cornea-transplant as soon as she strolled in, wheeling and dealing for black eyes." Alastair shoved him forward, his first breath inward full of charred bone.

"But I said, no, because I _knew_ you were coming my way, Dean."

"So I put her on reserve, like a fine pinot grigio." Alastair crossed the torture chamber, swaying as if to a waltz, stopping by Bela's head where he stabbed his demonic nose into her hair, taking lingering inhalations of humanity about to be uncorked. "Can you imagine how much better she's going to taste after being steeped in all that fear? And here you cower," Alastair clicked his tongue and wagged his head. "That's not much in the way of gratitude. I thought I taught you that lesson already. We could start over..."

Her eyes were bugging out, pleading with him, the leather gag tight over her mouth. He could see the relief that was in those tearful blue eyes at first – Dean Winchester who rescued everyone was here in the non-flesh. He had to clench his fists to keep them from reaching out to untie her.

"Yes, my boy, perhaps you need a refresher course." Alastair mused thoughtfully. And Dean knew all too well what kind of machinations those musings brought to the surface.

Sniffing out the indecision, Alastair began his cajoling. "She made a deal to kill the very people who brought her into this world. She shot your brother. She sold the Colt – and that could've _saved_ you, could've at least given poor Sammy a fighting chance. Is she really worth getting back up on my table? _Really?_"

Dean could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks, making their way through the soot that perpetually stained his skin. "No…"

There was a voice in the background, a sharp sir-yes-sir voice that cut through the crackle of flames that had begun to consume him. _"C'mon, soldier. Don't say no. You can't say no. You deserve to take leave."_

Alastair, still there, shoved the hell-bound version of him forward, planted a razor in one of his hands and some filth coated slivers of bamboo in the other, the cold steel of one and the sweltering stickiness of the other leaving his body as conflicted as his mind. He'd do this, because he couldn't face the alternative. Besides, why try to save her? It was clear there was nothing left to save of either of them.

The razor bit through flesh and caught on the hardness of her sternum. With Bela's first choked scream, he was hurtled back in the present, his eyes darting around, his heart cavorting wildly in his chest. The coast was clear of sulfur and bloodied scam artists, just clinical whiteness, sterile and freezing cold.

"Come with me, Dean, I'm beggin' ya."

What the present tense ghost and the Ghost of Christmas Past were asking of him were inexorably tangled up with one another. Was he saying yes or no to punishing her just a little bit more, just a little bit, until it felt right to him, until it felt like justice. Was he saying yes or no to Cole, who was offering peace that was tied up in a body bag? Which one did he even want…

To fight. He knew he needed to suck it up and fucking fight. And he'd tell that plague-ridden ghost to go stick it, just as soon as he could get some air in his chest.

_Oh._

_That was a problem. Where'd the air go?_

He was going to die here in a sweaty, heart-thumping heap, because he was fucking winded? He'd always hoped that'd be the way he went out, but – say, at eighty years old underneath a redhead.

_"It'll be better, soldier. I promise."_

_Focus, Dean, focus. Breathe. Tell this sonovabitch no._

But, resounding no's do not resound, or sound for that matter, when you don't have the air to push them out.

A strong familiar voice did it for him.

"No, it won't, Corporal." Bobby said, snatching a tiny salt packet off of Dean's lunch tray, his fingers tearing them open hurriedly. "Things get better when you live. They never have a chance to if you die."

With that, Bobby tossed a handful of salt at the spirit who promptly disappeared, then crossed the room to Dean's bedside and turned the valve for the oxygen wide open, the metal still ice cold from the spirit enacting its force on it. The grizzled hunter watched with wide eyes as Dean's chest hitched on every rapid swallow of air, gasping and coughing, a gurgle sounding from the back of his throat.

"Dean? Dean!" Bobby fumbled for the call button that had fallen on the floor, pressing the button several times, still trying to get the kid to give him some sign he was hanging on. Dean's eyes were anywhere but on Bobby, flitting from all over the place as though searching the room for hidden dangers. Bobby cradled Dean's face in his hands, trying to get him to focus on him.

"Shit, kid…burning up. A LITTLE HELP IN HERE!" Bobby roared, catching Dean's flinch as he raised his voice. "Yeah, that's right, ya idjit, if you even _think_ about believing the hogwash some nutcase spook is trying to sell you, I will tear you a new one! Just one breath at a ti-"

Bobby was interrupted by people in scrubs and white coats running into the room. A flurry of activity surrounded Dean, one nurse pulling Bobby away by the belt-loops on his jeans, the other pushing the head of Dean's bed back and removing the pillow so that he was laying flat.

"Heart rate 130, respiration 30, labored and shallow. Pulse ox 78!" One nurse shouted out.

Bobby saw a young looking fella in a white coat, a Dr. Aiken, break out what he knew was a non-rebreather mask, placing it on Dean with care and adjusting the oxygen valve on the wall.

"Temp is 104.2," warned a nurse in pink scrubs after invading Dean's ear with the thermometer. Across the bed, the other nurse looked blankly at her.

"I just checked his temp on vitals rounds. How did he get worse so fast?"

"Uhhh, doctor?" The nurse who had just finished taking Dean's temperature was pointing to the side of the bed, where the tube leading from his chest was emptying into the canister at an alarming rate, a layer of thick sludge topped with frothy white. Before the medical professionals could panic about their patient drowning right before their eyes, the flow of the viscous effusion slowed to a stop as mysteriously as it had started.

"Let's get some ice in here, a cooling blanket." The doctor flipped through Dean's chart. "40mg of Lasix, let's get Combivent going through the mask. Dean, listen to me. I need you to calm down. Not breathing would make me panic too, but the calmer you are - the better it'll be." The doctor waited several long seconds where Dean kept the same hectic rate of respiration, before patting Dean's hand. "Okay, how 'bout we give you some help in that department."

Bobby saw the doctor pull a syringe out of the rolling tray that reminded him a lot of a toolbox he had back home. "What's that?"

"I'm giving him some Ativan to help him calm down. We need him to take some deeper breaths." Nearly as soon as the medication had been injected Bobby saw Dean's body relax, his fingers uncurling from the fists they had formed.

One nurse came back in with bags of ice when the other began speaking. "Pulse ox 86 and rising, respiration 24, heart rate 110."

Dr. Aiken began helping the nurses pack the ice around his patient's body. "Let's increase his dose of acetaminophen too. And I want the portable x-ray in here now."

"So, Mr. Morris…" Dr. Aiken said, turning toward Bobby, "What happened?"

Bobby was saved from having to answer when a muffled moan was heard.

"Back with us, Dean?" Dr. Aiken asked, both he and Bobby laughing at the raised hand that shot into the air to give them a thumbs up.

"Pulse ox holding steady?" Dr. Aiken asked one of the nurses who nodded in answer. "Let's get him back on the Venturi mask. I want a blood gas now and in four hours."

While the masks were being switched out, they heard Dean mumble, "B'by?"

"Yeah, kid, I'm here." Bobby stood at the foot of the bed and squeezed Dean's toes, not wanting to get in the way of the staff.

"R'l?"

"Yeah, boy, that was real."

"S'm?"

"I'll call him right now. Be right back."

Bobby quickly stepped out of the room and dialed Sam, who finally picked up on the fourth ring.

"I'm not interrupting you, am I?" Bobby asked with dripping sarcasm.

"What, no? Everything okay, Bobby? You find out anything with the alarm company?" Sam's voice sounded wrong to Bobby: clipped, rushed, and guilty.

"Alarm'll be easy. You need to come back to the hospital, Sam."

"Bobby. . . ?" Now there was the uncertain, worried Sammy voice Bobby was used to.

"Cole came to visit your brother while no one was here. If I hadn't walked in when I did…" Bobby shut up as several hospital staff walked by.

"_Cole?_ Jesus, Bobby…Jesus. I thought he wasn't…" Sam spluttered. "He's not…I mean, he's okay? I mean, what happened?"

"Calm down, Sam. I already have my hands full with one Winchester with breathing problems, don't need to make it two." Bobby heard Sam take a couple of breaths and the familiar sound of one of the doors of the Impala slamming.

Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. "So, what happened?"

"Respiratory distress." Bobby turned so he was facing the wall so he could utter the next part quietly. "Spook shut off the oxygen. Near as I can tell, Cole was trying to convince your brother to just keel over."

There was a sharp moment of silence.

"Sam?"

"Dean…he, um, he went for it?"

"No, Sam!" Bobby exclaimed in a chastising tone. "He didn't. Hence taking the trouble to turn off the oxygen. Seemed real keen on your brother meeting his Maker."

And enormous sigh of relief poured into Bobby's ear from the other end of the line."Okay, …okay, so…How is he now?"

"More stable than he was, high fever. They're icing him down now." Bobby stood flush against the hallway as a portable x-ray machine was wheeled past him and into Dean's room. "Getting some x-rays. He had stuff gushing out of his chest tube for a second there, then it stopped. Think they're worried about the infection they first told us about."

"I'm on my way now. Stay with him. We've got to figure out how Cole is someplace his flag isn't."

"We will."

"Bobby…"

"I won't leave his side, Sam. When he comes to, he'll be lookin' for your ugly mug, though, so get here. Drive safe."

**:::**

* * *

_Reviews Appreciated!_


	17. Cool Down, Sam

**Chapter 17**

**Cool Down, Sam**

Fifteen minutes later Sam came running into Dean's room. For all the progress his brother was supposed to have made in the last couple of days, he looked friggin' terrible. Ashen in contrast to the deep blue of the cooling blanket that was drawn up to his chest, his closed eyes sunken and looked bruised. Sam gazed mournfully at Bobby for a moment, a sadness mixed with guilt that Bobby had been a witness to many a time. He fingered the cooling blanket, keeping his back to his friend.

"How high was it?" Sam's voice was tight.

"In the 104 range." Bobby replied, watching the younger Winchester carefully. "He's a couple of degrees cooler now, almost right after I salted the spook. Hospital staff is starting to make a fuss about how strange this illness is. Asking questions. Either way, the blanket comes off once they're sure he's stable."

By the time Sam took a seat by the bed, whatever initial distress there had boiled down until only anger remained.

"How the _hell_ is he doing it, Bobby? The entire premise of the theory – _your_ theory – was that Cole was stuck to the flag! Hell, ghosts don't exactly have Traveler's Checks to begin with!" Sam hissed out in whisper.

The older hunter took his hat off, rolling the rim back and forth in his hands, letting Sam have his mini-tirade. "I still think he's attached to the flag," he said calmly.

"Then how-?"

"-I think he ends up attaching himself to whoever he makes sick." Bobby interrupted. "Maybe by the bacteria itself, I don't know. The information I have on buru burus and their kin – it gives an outline, doesn't exactly give the play by play for each kind. But, if Cole wasn't attached to the flag, then I don't think he'd be waiting once a year to take people. I saw his face, Sam. He's on a mission, pure and simple."

_Mission_, as if this was some noble effort to kill his brother.

Sam made a face at Bobby and opened his mouth to say some sarcastic nonsense. Fortunately for Sam's face, which was in imminent danger of a good smack, Bobby interrupted.

"You better think twice before you say whatever I think you're about to say, Sam. It's been a long couple days for _both_ of us."

Sam blew out a long breath, pressing his palms into his eyes for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "So, still the flag, huh?"

Bobby nodded.

This was good news. "That means we still salt and burn the flag. Dean'll get better."

"Hopefully. At the very least it means he won't have something around to make him worse." Bobby nodded his head again, putting his hat back into its customary place. "'One of us'll need to stay with 'im. Back in Rock Ridge it was fear and hallucinations – but the ghost went about its business. this time a ghost is gunnin' right for 'im. Least we know why all the other victims relapsed."

Bobby leaned forward toward Sam. "Look, I know you'd normally want it to be you that stays here and sticks by Dean, but I reckon you stand a better chance of gettin' past all the security."

"Yeah," Sam nodded immediately, "right. I'll take care of it."

Bobby expected a fight on this, or at least a mulling over or hesitation. Granted, he hadn't seen Sam during the months when Dean was six feet under, but he'd never seen him so willing to walk away from his brother, especially considering what condition Dean was in.

"You sure?" It wasn't that Bobby wanted to talk Sam out of it. Sam was clearly the best person for the task. It was just – off -- that Sam was so willing to leave Dean.

"Why wouldn't I be? Look, I know. We don't normally go it alone, but I can handle it." Before Bobby could interrupt, Sam held his hand up. "Even if Cole does make an appearance and I do get roughed up a little, better me than Dean, right?"

A breathy voice joined the conversation. "And jus' what…. do you mean by _that_?"

"Dean? Back with us? They gave you somethin' that might knock you out for a bit." Bobby leaned in closer to the bed.

"I noticed…" As much as Dean was somewhat enjoying the emotionally numb sensation the anti-anxiety medication was giving him, he knew he needed to be up and at 'em if a ghost had taped a 'kick me' sign to his back. "So…Cole, huh?"

Dean glanced sideways at Sam, who was busying himself raising Dean's bed, busying himself not looking in Dean's eyes. Remembering why the ghost was targeting him made Dean kind of okay with Sam's avoidance. "What's the plan, then?"

"I'm gonna go to the Cole residence, introduce him to the benefits of a high sodium diet." Sam replied.

Dean's eyes bored holes into Bobby. "And where are _you_ gonna be?"

"Here, with you."

"And Sam's going without back up? _No_, no way!"

"There isn't exactly a third option here, Dean." Sam said, exasperated. "We're not leaving you alone if Cole can get to you. And you're …"

"I'm _what_, Sam?" Dean asked sharply, his tone daring his brother to say he was weak.

"You're…" Sam hesitated, "In the hospital for a reason."

"You anxious to be laid up too, going off on your own?" Dean raised both eyebrows.

"Of course not! But we need to keep you safe." Sam was practically pleading, but Dean was far too angry about being "kept safe" to notice.

Bobby rolled his eyes and flicked his glance between the two brothers. "Boys, can we keep the egos in check so we can get the job done?"

Dean shifted his anger to Bobby. "I can't believe _you're_ going along with this. You know salt n' burns can go south fast. We're not even completely sure that it is the flag, and that place is – what, forty minutes away? Forty minutes...away...from either us....being able to lend…. a hand. Patch...a wound. Does that sound like smart… hunting to you?" Dean had to stop, then, gasping for breath and turned a blotchy red and purple, hacking up phlegm into his hand and smearing it on the sheets.

"Kid, tell me another option," Bobby replied calmly, "We're not leaving you alone, not when we can't leave you a shotgun. And you know as well as I do, the salt lines won't be maintained with all the nurses roamin' in an' out."

Sam nodded at Bobby in agreement, as if that was the end of the argument. Seeing his brother's firm, condescending head shake nearly put him over the edge, the fact that Dean was being told how it was going to be grated on his nerves.

"Okay, third option…" Sam and Bobby looked at Dean expectantly, waiting for him to finish another round of coughing so he could finish his sentence. "I come with you."

"_What?_ No, absolutely not!" Sam shook his head vehemently.

"Think about it…I come with, then you have back-up that isn't almost an hour away. I'm not saying I'm going to run around with you guys." Dean was making an effort to make his idea completely reasonable, and putting a monumental effort into not looking or sounding as sick as he felt. "Bobby, you were casing the place from a house across the way? I could play lookout there."

"You need to be _here_, Dean." Sam crossed his arms in resolution.

Dean ignored Sam and looked at Bobby, his eyes urging him to consider what he was offering.

"The idea has somethin' to it. Except for one thing." Bobby replied slowly.

"What's that?"

"You almost just stopped breathing, oh, a _half an hour_ ago. What are we s'posed to do if Cole gets too close to you and fries your brain with fever and fills your lungs up with fluid and neither of us are there? Besides that, I got some trainin', boy, but I ain't no doctor, and I don't have access to half the things they're giving you."

Dean was ready with his reply. "One," He began counting off on his fingers, "He won't get too close. Empty house. . . too easy to salt entry points. Two, you'll be right across the street, I can call if I need to." Dean held up his hand to catch his breath, wanting to be sure that they would wait for his last point. Bobby was waiting patiently, Sam on the other hand was ready to rebut immediately until Bobby shushed him.

"Three?" Bobby asked, when Dean looked like his was ready.

"Three – an hour and a half there and back, a half hour tops to do the job. I'm sure you have enough in your kit to keep me from Reaper territory for two or three hours."

"Then what?" Bobby asked.

"Then…well, depends what happens after, right? Last time as soon as the ghost was ganked, I was fine, all healed."

"And supposing that's not the case? We don't know that these types of ghosts have that in common," Bobby prompted again.

Dean fought the eye roll he wanted to give. He knew what Bobby was looking for, the assurance that he was giving his permission to cart his ass back to the hospital.

"Yeah, yeah…I'll go to a hospital. Not this one, though. We can't risk it."

Bobby nodded and then gazed at the younger Winchester. It was going to be a hard sell. "What say you, Sam?"

Sam shook his head. "I say you're both nuts. This is an unnecessary risk. I could go take care of it and be back here already."

Dean saw what flickered in Sam's eyes then, the realization that he could, in fact, take off to deal with Michael Cole with no one any the wiser.

"So help me, Sam, if you do what I know you're thinking…_No_."

Sam's jaw jutted out and his face became stony. Getting told what he could and couldn't do never brought out the best in him.

Bobby cottoned on real quick. "Sam…don't do something foolish now."

"Wanting my brother to stay in the hospital when he needs to be there is foolish?" Sam asked, incredulous. "_C'mon_, Bobby."

"The idea isn't ideal, but neither is you goin' in without someone to watch your back. So long as he stays out of harm's way – and Dean, you can wipe that look off your face right _now_ damnit – I don't see a problem. Well, too many problems. At least in that house he can have a shotgun."

"No, he can't." Sam replied firmly.

"Sam…" Dean started.

"No, Dean. Even if I was going along with this little scheme, and I'm not saying I am, you'd be on _oxygen_. It's not an option at this point. Shooting firearms plus oxygen equals bad news. Salt, iron, sure. But no guns, not even a lighter."

Dean started smiling his fool head off. The moment Sam started figuring out logistics is the moment in every argument that Dean knew he'd won.

"So," Dean rasped, rubbing his hands together. "How 'bout those AMA forms?"

**:::**


	18. Get Your Stories Straight

**Chapter 18**

**Get Your Stories Straight**

The doctors came pretty close to throwing professional hissy fits. Well, Dr Ferguson did. Dr. Demon just held up his hands and wandered away, seemingly content to let his colleague fight it out for him.

"Are you crazy?" The dark-haired doctor stood there, Dean's chart in her hands, tapping her low-heeled shoes impatiently, her entire posture screaming with the utter restraint she was using to hold herself back from whatever it is she wanted to say…or yell. Frankly, Sam didn't really want to know what she wanted to say, particularly because he knew he'd agree with it. Also because the Winchester's getting yelled at like they're children was an honor currently reserved for Bobby and Ellen.

The question about sanity was directed toward Dean, who was still flushed with fever, sweating out the fluids constantly being pumped into him via IV. He removed the oxygen mask from his face and gave her a practiced solemn look, "Look, there is a family emergency. Our sister was in a car accident, we need to be there."

"I'm sorry about your sister, but _you_ need to be _here_. I'm sure she'll understand that."

Dean fought rolling his eyes and continued to spin the story. "She's in a coma. She might not wake up and.." Dean began coughing, which was real, but he used it to his advantage to gain sympathy, prompting Sam to continue the tale.

"She's a single mom. Our nephews, if we're not there they might get put in foster care temporarily. We need to go claim them, make sure papers are filed. We can't let them get separated or lost in the system. Their mom being so sick has traumatized them enough." Sam didn't need much prompting to look serious and fearful. He had memories of dodging the Department of Social Services enough times, and when he caught Dean's eyes, he knew that they were on the same page.

Dr. Ferguson looked properly chastised, but was still standing her ground. "I'm terribly sorry. But you have to understand, my responsibility is to you, Mr. Morris." She turned toward Sam. "Is there any way that you can go and sort things out without Dean, or your father, just for the time being, until he's better?"

"If I could do this on my own, believe me, I wouldn't hesitate." Sam's gazed flicked directly to Dean for a moment, the truth shining through before he continued to lie. "But she named him as caretaker and health proxy, not me, not our dad. And you know how the courts are, I'm sure. He has to represent himself. It won't look good if he sends somebody."

And the _coup de grace_, Sam let his eyes shine brightly, so earnest, so pleading. "Please, we only have forty-eight hours to claim them before CPS puts them in the system. Once they are in the system, it'll be hard as hell to get them out." Sam tugged out his wallet, pulling out a picture that was well taken care of, with two young children who could have been from any time, any decade, any suburbia. An older brother helping his younger brother learn how to walk, chubby hands clutching onto strong and sure fingers as small feet stomped their way across the grass. "The older one, he's John, the little one, that's Robby. We're the only family they have."

Dr. Ferguson gazed from the picture back at the Winchesters, looking torn. Sam pushed onward.

"Please, Dr. Ferguson," Sam's eyes flicked down to her ID badge. "Christina. I'll take care of him, I'll make sure he gets right back to a hospital as soon as everything is settled with the kids. I know your duty is to your patients, but our duty is to our family."

She nodded her head slowly, clearly not liking the decision she had come to, but also realizing that Dean Morris was going to sign out whether she wanted him to or not.

"You need to give me six to eight hours. We have to remove the chest tube, monitor you for a bit." She shook her head for a minute, once again turning to Sam. "You're going to have a pile of aftercare instructions. You better read all of it."

Christina pivoted toward Dean, her utter annoyance at discharging a patient too soon rising from her shoulders like the hackles of an enraged feline. "And _you_ better follow it."

Her voice softened for a moment, her hands shoved into her pockets like a child who didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry about your sister. I hope she recovers. I'll go get moving on the paperwork." She moved to go out the door, but not before pausing for a moment."Why do I feel like I'm an accomplice in a crime?"

Dean waited for the doctor to clear the doorway before starting in on Sam. "What picture did you show her?" he croaked out.

"Oh." Sam shrugged, embarrassed, letting Dean hold the laminated photograph. "Bobby had it. When you were, uh, _gone_…we got drunk, looked at some old pictures. He offered it to me."

"Huh," was all Dean said, staring at the picture as if he wanted to commit it to memory. "You were…god, fourteen months old, I think? I don't know where it was taken, though." Dean brushed his thumb over tiny Sammy's chubby baby legs, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Sam sat on the edge of Dean's bed, enjoying a moment where he felt the easy comfort of being Dean's brother, rather than constant tension between older and younger or the overwhelming burden of being a savior for one who didn't want to be saved.

"So, Bobby's checking access points on the house and packing up our stuff?" Dean, reluctantly it seemed, handed the photo back to his sibling.

"Yeah, he headed back to get his truck, too."

"What about the alarm company?"

Sam brushed his hair back over his ears, feeling the grease remaining from the shower he had never taken. "Well, I told him to hold off on getting a definite window of opportunity until we were sure you were being released."

Dean gave Sam a look of disbelief. "Yes, because I _definitely_ would listen to some stranger over my brother. Who am I, _you_?"

Before Sam could ask what his brother meant by that, a voice chimed in. "I hear you're ducking out on us." Dr. Ross Aiken was leaning against the doorway.

"Well, if it isn't the Whiz Kid. The walls have ears in this place, huh?" Dean grinned, happy for the interruption so he wouldn't have to explain the bit of venom that had just leaked out of his mouth.

"Nina, I mean, Dr. Ferguson – it was kind of hard not to notice how infuriated she was. She told me about your sister, I'm sorry. Were the kids in the car?"

Sam started with his "No, thank god" at the same moment Dean started with his "Yeah, oldest broke his arm…"

The brothers stared at each other for a moment. Usually they were better than this, more in sync, not liable to be caught by _Doogie-freaking-Howser_ because of rookie mistakes. Dean flicked a sheepish gaze from Sam to Dr. Aiken, who pulled up a rolling stool to the ailing Winchester's bedside.

"Look, it must be pretty important for you to go around putting non-existent relatives in comas."

Sam and Dean stayed silent, the less they said at this point – the better. It was pretty obvious the kid was fishing for information.

"You don't have to tell me anything, okay? Here's what I'll tell you. You relapsed quickly and for no good reason. Your x-ray didn't give us any clues – except that six hours ago you were improving, and now you're nearly as bad off as you were when you first arrived. You're not even giving us time to figure out why your lungs would flood like that, or why it would clear up so dramatically. You were lucky it stopped, but it could happen again, and whatever we can send you away with isn't going to be enough, especially with no chest tube in. The reality is that you could die."

"Just another day in paradise, doc." Dean flashed a grin. Sam struggled to keep a lid on the mutinous look his face immediately twitched into as soon as Dean became flippant about his life.

"Are you still going to be in our neck of the woods?" Ross asked, his hands fiddling with the stethoscope draped over his shoulders.

Dean shook his head slightly at Sam, but Sam ignored him. His gut told him that if this kid was going to cause them problems he wouldn't be bothering to ask questions or be trying to keep Dean in the hospital.

"In the vicinity, for a little bit, yeah. Not sticking around, though."

The youthful doctor nodded his head as if considering something. "I live around here. You could ca-"

Dean interrupted. "- No, we couldn't. It is great of you to offer, really. If we can't handle it, we'll call 911."

Sam recognized Dean's refusal for what it was. On a job that was going to involve breaking and entering, they didn't want to involve such a good kid. Still, if he wanted to help…

"You know – if at all possible, and if I'm pushing it lemme know, but if you could make sure that we get prescribed as close to what he gets in here as possible, that'd be a huge help."

Dr. Aiken nodded his head. "I'll see what I can do." He squinched up his face, possibly dropping another five years from it. "There's more, and you're not going to like it."

Sam felt his stomach drop. Had they been flagged by insurance or police?

"You want to get out of here as soon as possible, I take it. Chest tube removal is a bit like removing the ventilator. Your brother had mentioned you're familiar with that?"

"Intimately." Dean agreed.

"So, we'll try and make sure you're comfortable while we're doing it, but it isn't something we book an OR for."

"Meaning?" Sam asked.

"It isn't the same cocktail of drugs, usually just a strong painkiller – and then we pull it out. You could try to push for them to put you out again like last time, but even if they said yes, and that's a _big_ if – they'd want to keep you here another day. And they will break in their shiny new psych staff if that's what it takes, argue that you're temporarily not competent to judge what care you need."

Sam was about to argue how that was all sorts of illegal, but his brother beat him to the punch.

"I can do without. Sure. No problem," Dean declared, mouth set in a grim line.

But, it was a problem, of that Sam was sure. If it hadn't been a problem, then Dean wouldn't have made such a huge deal about it when they were going to put the tube in. Even Doogie was sitting there making a face that he didn't buy Dean's "no problem" nonsense. Much to Sam's dismay, Dr. Aiken didn't speak up about his obvious doubts - just shook his head, apparently used to stubborn big brothers.

"I'll go help out with your paperwork, then. See what I can muster up for meds."

Just as the doctor hit the threshold of the doorway, Dean called out. "Hey, Ross…?"

"Yeah, man." The cheerful smile the physician was wearing dropped practically a decade more from his face.

"Nina, huh? I approve." Dean gave a great big smarmy smile and a thumbs up. He reached over into the duffle full of random things that Sam had brought in, found a subtle blue striped tie he often used when having to portray an authority figure.

Dean held the tie out to the young physician. "If your brother was around, he'd tell you to ditch that atrocity you're wearing around your neck." It was the same tie they always saw Doogie in, so Dean was pretty sure it was his only one – orange and olive paisley, a relic of the seventies.

Ross crossed the room and tentatively reached out, fingering the silk of the tie for a moment before taking it. "You sure?"

Dean nodded and shrugged, the prospect of losing the tie no big deal to him. It was obvious that it was a very big deal to the young man in front of him, however.

"Thanks, man." Ross, who had now fully reverted from intelligent physician to awkward nerdy dude, stood there, unsure of himself. Then he shrugged in an 'aw, shucks, Ma' sorta way before he left the room, blush in full throttle, but grinning widely.

Dean glanced at Sam, whose gaze was following the young doctor as he left the room. He was just glad that someone apparently still appreciated the efforts of older brothers.

**:::**


	19. Shut Up and Drive

**Chapter 19**  
**Shut Up and Drive**

The final few hours of Dean's admission in the hospital dragged. Both he and Sam were getting antsy, him to get the hell out of the hospital and Sam with pissy anxiety. Every time Dean coughed, the sound low and thick, Sam shot Dean a look. It was a look Sam had mastered well over the years – frustration tinged with concern, laced with the air of someone making a point. As if each cough were saying, _hey fucker, you're too sick to hunt!_ Luckily, Dean was practiced in the art of ignoring this look. The Valium/pain med cocktail he had prior to the chest tube removal helped for awhile. He didn't have to pretend to not care, he honestly didn't.

Sam had pushed, right after Dr. Aiken had walked through the door, for Dean to stick around for a couple more days. Sam being Sam – he had tried to use the logic that then they could push for the chest tube to be removed when he was really conked out, that so long as someone was with Dean to ward off the ghost, he'd be safe for a few days. Sam reasoned that if they could ward the ghost off, Dean might even be able get better, since the ghost was giving a real sickness documented by medical science. He kept asking for one solid reason why Dean wasn't willing to wait.

Dean didn't know how to explain to his brother that he didn't think he could deal with Alastair popping up out of nowhere, of having to relive his deepest shame and weakness as the result of a fever dream. Dean never did want to put off a hunt (unless _Sam_ was sick or hurt – and that hypocrisy was another point in Mr. Pre-Law's arsenal), but the anticipation of hallucinations had Dean crawling in his too-hot skin. It was one thing to deal with the memories that were branded into his grey matter. He could distract himself - drink, hunt, _drink_. That distraction was tossed out the window when the memories came to life with such vivid immersion that Dean doubted for a moment if it was the hospital that was reality. Yeah, the sooner they went and said _sayonara_ to this spook, the better.

**:::  
:::**

Mrs. Cole volunteered in a soup kitchen for a few hours every afternoon. Bobby managed to get the alarm company to shut it off during that time on the following day – some story he told them about the place having cockroaches and the widow not wanting to have to worry about the exterminator setting it off when he came. It bought them a solid three hour window during which the house would be empty and disarmed. Most of the neighbors were at work during that time of day. Bobby had even made sure they'd be well out of the area before the school bus started dropping off kids.

Sam was not pleased. Part of Dean's selling point for this whole scheme was that he'd only be out of hospital care for a few hours. Now he was signing out and they wouldn't even be taking care of the ghost until the next day. There really wasn't a choice; the object of the hunt wasn't in some out of the way cemetery, but in the middle of suburbia. They had to take what window they could. There had been some discussion about fooling Mrs. Cole into thinking she'd won a trip, get her out of the house – but apart from her American Legion activities, she never left town. Any con they could think to pull on her to get her to leave was going to take longer than just waiting until the next day.

So, the nurses unhitched Dean from all the various tubing and equipment after he finished one final IV dose of antibiotics. The urinary catheter came out, which ended up being a lot worse on him than getting the chest tube yanked. Sam came back in afterward, (cause you're damn right he made his little brother leave for that) and was immediately concerned once he got one look at Dean's bloodless face and started pushing for him to talk, asking him if he was in pain. Dean was definitely not going there, though. He was not going to explain to anyone, least of all Sam, why someone sticking things into Little Dean would remind him of Hell. Torture is torture is torture – and he was more than happy to gloss over the specifics of that. Time to bottle it up and do what he did best – kicking Slimer's little ectoplasmic ass.

**:::  
:::**

When Bobby came in later, pushing an empty wheelchair, Dean was so thrilled about busting out of the joint that he forgot to look affronted. He'd just finished up a quick session with a ham-handed respiratory therapist, who was neither good looking nor female. So, yeah, he was itching to leave. He did not forget to roll his eyes when Bobby winked at him and declared, "Your chariot, my lady!"

Dean grumbled as he got himself situated in the worn hospital wheelchair. "See if I keep my mouth shut the next time you're in one of these…" he warned, running out of air.

"I can handle whatever you can dish out, boy. Trust me on that." Bobby's tongue was sharp, but his eyes and hands kind, fatherly, as he re-threaded a nasal cannula around Dean's face.

"I just got…unhooked…from all this shit." Dean wheezed in complaint.

Bobby simply motioned to the back of the wheelchair. "Portable. Knights of Columbus lets you borrow certain medical supplies if you can prove you're in need. Larger tank than I have."

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, the fact that he was in need of charity not sitting well with him. Some little kid somewhere might be going without _air_ because of poor, sick torturing Dean.

_Some little kid and his sick grandma._

_And his parents had tuberculosis._

_And their golden retriever had a cough._

Bobby interrupted Dean's self-loathing. "Done feeling sorry for yourself?" Matter-of-fact. No accusation, no wanna-talk-about-it. Just _'that's enough of that now, kid.'_ And it worked.

Dean didn't know why he was so surprised. He knew Bobby knew a thing or two about feeling sorry for yourself, about regret. Every hunter did, but not every hunter knew what it was to kill the person you pledged to love forever. And Bobby tried to keep it under wraps, but Dean also knew that his friend blamed himself a bit for Dean's little jaunt to the Pit. Bobby figured that maybe if he hadn't let Dean push him away when Sam died, Dean would never have sold his soul. Sam told him that much – when he first asked about Bobby's little grief-induced alcohol binge.

Dean had never talked about it with Bobby, because as much as he wanted to stop Bobby from shouldering that burden, the conversation sounded a little too much like saying Sam _should_ have stayed dead. Even with the apocalypse looming and Sam leaning toward a demon's help, giving in to his psychic freakiness, that wasn't a possibility he could acknowledge.

That's what he wanted to tell Corporal Cole – that he signed on willingly. Maybe he didn't realize the full scope of what exactly he was signing up for, because human imagination is limited when it comes to the hellscape, but even now, that knowledge didn't change anything.

_He's_ changed. The farce of normalcy he tried to put up didn't fool anyone, least of all himself. Yeah, he's changed. Sam's changed too, and neither for the better. There's no changing back, but it didn't mean things couldn't be _good_ again. He said as much to Sam after Jess had died and he'd wholeheartedly believed it then. So he'd cling to that same hope now – that somehow just he and Sam and the open road would be enough to see them through.

So, yeah, for the moment, Dean was done with feeling sorry for himself. He pointed to the hallway with a characteristic smirk. "Onward, Jeeves."

**:::**

Sam was waiting for them at the nurse's station, finishing up some paperwork so Dean could just scribble his fake name and they could leave. Sam was holding two large bags marked Personal Belongings, which made no sense because Bobby had his duffel and he hadn't been admitted long enough to have carted in that much stuff.

Sam warned him off of questioning it with a glance, though, and they made their way to the Impala. When everyone was finally properly settled into the car, he leaned forward against the bench seat in front of him, resting his arms across the familiar leather as if he were hugging his goddamn car.

"So, what's with all the stuff?"

Sam used the rearview mirror to look at Dean."This stuff is to keep your ass alive. Let's just say our good friend Ross was feeling generous and rebellious all at the same time. You're a terrible influence." Sam was shaking his head, but smiling doing it.

Dean snorted, then smiled with the sort of bravado he had nearly forgotten. "Why yes, yes I am."

Bobby was reading the paperwork that the young doctor had left them. "He expects me to put in an IV?"

"_Can_ you even put one in?" Dean asked in surprise.

"I learned how. Haven't exactly had much practice doing it. How'd he even know one of us could, Sam?" Bobby shrewdly appraised the younger Winchester.

"I caught him in the hallway, maybe told him that in a pinch you knew how." Sam explained hastily. "Look, even _you_ said that we wouldn't be able to give Dean as much help as a hospital. Now we're at least a little bit closer. Think about it, Bobby, it makes sense to have a line in him. We can keep the antibiotics and fluids going, and in an emergency we'll be able to get some meds on board right away."

"Meds on board." Dean mimicked with a rough chuckle, "Too many episodes of _'ER'_. Admit it…you adore Clooney."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"It does make sense." Bobby agreed.

Tired of being spoken of like he wasn't there, Dean chimed in. "The guinea pig get to have a say in this?"

Both Bobby and Sam replied, "No."

Still, Dean felt he was duty-bound to poke holes in their logic before Bobby started poking holes into _him_. And he would have, if he had a good argument and could have gotten a decent sized breath that wouldn't leave him coughing; the pain from the pleurisy feeling like a ninja was tossing throwing stars right into his left side with each breath.

Dean was aware that he sounded almost as bad as the asthmatic chick at the end of _The Hand That Rocks the Cradle_. He kind of didn't have a problem with Rebecca deMornay trying to get feisty with him. He'd bet anything she was possessed. One solid exorcism and she'd be back to _Risky Business_ status and grateful…

Breathless, Dean put his head down, trying to focus on what Sam was saying before he started playing the Kevin Bacon game in his head.

"….you want to do this plan, then we're going in smart." Sam shrugged, starting up the ignition. He glanced in the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of his older brother's shoulders heaving with the exertion of trying to speak, apparently having decided to rest his head on the front seat while he caught his breath. "Dude, you're going to have to not talk until we get to the motel."

Dean didn't reply, just gave Sam the finger.

"Seriously, I'm not kidding around. We're not even out of the parking lot and you sound worse."

This time Dean didn't even bother with a hand gesture. The wheezing was decidedly more unsettling than the silent treatment.

"Dean?" Bobby asked, shifting slightly in his seat, resting his hand on the closely shorn head of the surrogate son in the backseat. "Just hang tight, kid. Ten minutes to a bed and some of the good stuff."

Sam shot a worried look at Bobby.

"Just drive, Sam."

**:::**

* * *

**:::**


	20. Screw the Pooch

**Chapter 20**  
**Screw the Pooch**

* * *

It was kind of stupid, Dean thought, that the motel bed was way more restful than the hospital's. Fair to say he would be more relaxed if his brother would actually go to sleep. Instead, Sam had forced all the pillows in the room behind Dean's back, and two from Bobby's room. He asked his dear baby brother what he was going to rest his head on. Sam just shrugged and handed him the mouthpiece of the freaking nebulizer thing Doogie had stolen for them.

It was also stupid that Sam was refusing to give him more quarters for the Magic Fingers.

Bobby had initially hung out for awhile, long enough to wipe him out of laundromat coinage too. He managed to get the IV in with less tries than it had taken the douche EMT, then left to his own room for the night with the admonition to wake him up if anything happened.

Sam had removed the ugly framed landscape that had hung above Dean's bed and was busy hanging a new bag of saline on the picture hooks and taking down the empty bag of antibiotics.

"That was the good stuff, right?" Dean asked.

"I'm not putting Jim Beam through your IV." Sam joked. "What good stuff?"

"The antibiotic. The one that didn't make me hurl. Leviathan or whatever."

"Leviathan is supposed to be either a sea beast or a prince of Hell, dude. Leva_quin_ is what they put you on," Sam spoke in his usual know-it-all tone before shrugging. "Considering how often we've been reading the Bible this year, I'm not surprised your mind made the leap."

"Whatever, geek." Dean squirmed uncomfortably. The sight of his brother adjusting his IV was just wrong. Maybe Sam knew it too, because he seemed to quicken up the pace and then turned his back to Dean, facing the dinette table littered with various medical paraphernalia.

Sam picked up an amber bottle. "Huh, I didn't even know they made cough syrup with codeine."

"You wouldn't remember." Dean grinned. "You had it when you were…eleven, I think? Looped you out real good."

"Was that when I tried to steal Dad's truck?" Sam squinted, trying to recall the hazy memory that was coming to the surface.

"Yeah, because you wanted to go the library - of all the nerdy reasons. He was pissed, but told me later he was proud you snaked the keys so easily." Dean smiled wryly along with Sam. It was strange the memories they had of their childhood – that being a good thief brought a smile to their dad's face. Still, it was nice that at this point they could smile about it.

"Aren't I not s'posed to have cough medicine?" Dean asked.

Sam looked up from reading the instructions on the label in surprise. "You actually read the aftercare instructions?"

"I'll care about what damage I cause your face, _after_ I give you a beat down." Dean rolled his eyes, bringing a fist up to his lips, trying to stifle a cough.

"If you read them then you'd know they want you to cough," Sam said dryly.

"Then _don't_ gimme cough syrup," Dean spluttered wretchedly, laying one arm across his eyes, his chest heaving in irregular bursts, the words leaving his body aching for more air.

Sam pondered explaining the difference between cough suppressants and expectorants, but he caught the fleeting look misery that had been allowed to cross his brother's face. Only mere hours out of the hospital and the flush of increased fever was reddening Dean's skin.

Sam sat himself on the edge of the bed next to Dean. "Hey, seriously, this'll help. It'll be easier to cough shit up and it won't hurt as much."

Dean removed his arm to give Sam a quick glance and surveyed the bottle with disdain. "Taste bad?"

"Jesus, Dean! Are you that much of a child that you still need to have candy-flavored cough syrup?"

"Shuddup." Dean smacked at Sam's arm with one hand and then used the immovable Gigantor's t-shirt to help pull himself into a sitting position. "Somethin' to drink?"

Sam made sure Dean was able to sit upright on his own before standing up, making his way across the room to grab a room-temperature Coke. While he had his back turned, Dean started coughing – hard, wrenching coughs that must have been shifting tectonic plates, nevermind mucus.

He turned, popping the top of the soda can, nearly saying some shit about how good it was for Dean to continue the coughing when he noticed Dean was blotchy purple, seemingly _trying_ to cough, choking on whatever was trying to crawl its way out of his lungs.

In an instant, Sam slammed the soda down so hard on the bedside table that the sugary drink splashed out. He began thwapping Dean on the back with his huge hands, increasing the force when the first blows didn't seem to dislodge whatever was in Dean's throat. Finally one hard smack did something and Dean pulled at edge of the comforter they were sitting on to spit out the hideous gob in his mouth.

In the secret way most people are about their bodily fluids, you have to look. Dean did, as he was inhaling great rattling gusts of air from the room, tears falling from his eyes unbidden as the pain on his left side cranked up. Painful breathing was still breathing, though.

Sam continued to lightly clap on his brother's back for a couple more times, then slowed as he realized Dean was breathing, or at least wheezing again. "You alright?"

His older brother just said, "Sam," and raised the corner of the blanket so that he could see the gross wad of disgusting crap his sibling had just managed to uproot from his airway.

"Dude!" Sam protested, shoving the offending mess away.

"_Sam_." Dean rasped, apparently serious, and raised the quilted cover toward him again.

Sam pursed his lips unhappily and eyed the puddle of mucus Dean was holding as if it were of international importance. Upon a second inspection, maybe it was.

The yellow-green color was standard lung infection, the smears of rust which indicated blood were frightening, but that wasn't what was wrong here.

No, it was the _**black**_ specks of ooze suspended there that were wrong.

Sam pulled the comforter out of his brother's hands, disgust fading to the background as he examined the specimen closer.

"Clot?" Dean asked hopefully.

Sam swallowed hard. "Ya think?"

They both sounded doubtful.

"Knife?" Dean rasped.

Sam knew the one to grab from the duffel, the hand-forged iron dirk that Dean had bought for a song at a haunted Renaissance Faire. He carefully laid the handle of the sharp blade into his brother's waiting palm and watched as Dean stuck the thin point of the iron into the largest bit of dark ooze.

It sizzled.

"Ectoplasm." Dean said – matter-of-fact, as if it didn't just come out of _him_.

Sam's felt the blood drain from his face. "I'll get Bobby."

**:::  
:::**

"We need to go now!" Sam shouted, already packing what little had made its way out of their bags.

"Son, just calm down..." Bobby took the current duffel Sam was stuffing out of his hands so he'd have to stop the frantic packing.

"Don't do that, don't make this sound like I'm freaking out about nothing! Antibiotics aren't gonna work on ectoplasm! We can't eject it if it isn't true ghost possession – so our only other option is to _gank_ the sonovabitch!"

"Sam-" Dean started, but apparently his brother had yet to run out of steam. It made him feel breathless just listening to Sam yammer on.

"We aren't going to be able to keep him stable no matter how much crap we have here, Bobby. Hell, we don't even know if salt lines are gonna work if the goddamn thing is already inside him!" One of the inhalers was hurled across the room with fury, bouncing off the wall and landing at the foot of the Dean's bed.

"_Sam_-" Dean tried again and was again ignored. Now he just felt annoyed.

"I can't just sit here while it gets worse and worse. I can't. I just – _can't_. Not when I can do something about it."

There it was again – that 'I' that Sam kept on using, that 'I' that Sam apparently must have shoved up his ass nowadays. Dean wasn't the only one who noticed, either.

"You _ain't_ the only one in this, Sam. You ain't the only one who's trying to help." Bobby chimed in, eyes narrowing slightly.

Sam's nostrils flared wide. "Then why _don't_ you?"

"_HEY!_"

Dean's shout started a hack that ricocheted mucus around his chest like bullets, but at least he had their attention. Problem was, now that he had it, Dean didn't know what to say. He just knew he'd seen that same crazed look in Sam's eyes before – and no way was he going to let it be thrown at Bobby.

Fortunately, Sam did seem to realize he had crossed a line, his legs folding beneath him as he sat heavily on the drab beige duvet, the mattress squeaking. He reached one of his ape-ishly long arms out and snatched the tossed inhaler from the floor, handing it to Dean wearily.

Dean placed his lips in front of the mouthpiece and sucked in the chemicals just to show Sam how to compromise.

"We planned for tomorrow." Dean rasped, breathless yet eerily calm. He cautioned a glance over to Bobby in the hopes that he would finish the thought.

"He's right, Sam." Bobby rolled up the sleeves of his ever-plaid shirt in an effort to calm himself. "She'll be out of the house, the alarms will be disarmed, and there won't be neighbors poking around. If we go in and get busted by the cops, it won't help your brother."

Sam sat up a bit straighter, put the face on that Dean always thought he would have worn in the courtroom. _Samuel Winchester, Attorney at Law_.

"So, then we improvise. We get her out of the house. We have the drugs for the dog, right? And the dog is in the yard until morning. Tranq the pooch, give her a call and pretext as an animal shelter."

Sam glanced at Bobby uncertainly. "Does she seem the type to run out and get her dog?"

Bobby nodded. "In a heartbeat."

"Alarm?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"You still have the blueprints of the unit?" Sam asked.

It wasn't an apology, not by a long shot, but planning was better than seething in rage, in any case. Bobby walked stiffly over to a bag that held a cardboard tube that held the rolled designs, carefully unfurled them and spread them out on the table in front of Sam.

The younger Winchester didn't ignore the olive branch and hunched over the intricate plans, taking a moment to study them before he spoke.

"Motion sensors are laid out toward the front of the house, not where the dog is kept – it looks like."

"We take out Spud McKenzie, check. What next?" Dean asked.

"Main access box is back here." Sam pointed a long finger toward the entrance from the yard. "I should be able to disarm it, get us into the rest of the house. There's a separate unit for the case with flag, but once we're inside I should be able to figure it out."

Sam looked up, his gaze pleading with both Bobby and his brother. "We're not new to stealth operations. We can do this...get it over with, Bobby, get him better..."

Sam's gaze fell, his voice tight and choked. "I have to do _something_."

Dean stared at Bobby over the top of his brother's bowed head who nodded slightly in return.

"Alright, we go in."

**:::**

* * *

**:::**


	21. Promises, Promises

**Chapter 21**

**Promises, Promises**

* * *

Nearing midnight Sam dropped off Bobby and Dean in front of the foreclosed house. It was kind of a sad sight, because - if Dean was honest about it, he thought more than a little about how different life might have been if he'd gotten to stay in one place as a kid, or since dad died, or before he died, or since coming back from Hell.

A home - it all seemed a fantastical idea.

It was still fantastical, of course, because leaving hunting was about as real an option as being President of the good ol' US of A. Still, here stood an ordinary house that reminded him a little of the kind of house Gumby girl had in Cicero. It was on an ordinary street. It was empty. And it wasn't the only one.

Whatever family had lived here had long since vacated the premises; the heavily weeded grass of the front lawn incongruous to the well-manicured landscaping of other homes. With only the streetlamps on, the lawns in various stages of growth told the tale of how many houses in this corner of suburbia were empty and for just how long.

Dean took shallow breaths, but the clean scent of freshly mown grass still tickled his nose. It took him a moment to figure out just what he was being reminded of.

The best sandwich he had ever eaten. His mother sitting with him at the kitchen table. A secret wish that yielded a life that felt so right and so wrong at the same time.

_That lawn looks like it could use some mowin'._

The ache in his chest intensified and he knew damn well it had nothing to do with illness.

Bobby's hand on his shoulder had Dean's eyelids blinking back the burn; he shielded his face in the crook of his elbow, grateful for the camouflage of coughing.

"You alright?" Bobby asked quietly.

"Yeah, let's get inside." Dean rubbed the wetness away from his eyes. "Must be 'llergic to suburbia."

Bobby gave Dean's shoulder a firm pat and guided him up the path to the side door attached to the garage, easily picking his way in. He set Dean up in what must've been a family room at one point, a great bay window with a cushioned bench seat facing the Cole's residence – a perfect location to keep watch.

Whoever was doing real estate on the place had kept it minimally furnished, everything in beige or white slipcovers. They sat together in companionable silence, checking the gear while they waited for Sam.

Dean began going over the weaponry from top to bottom, Bobby started doing the same to him with a look that brooked no complaint about it. Doogie had stowed a digital pulse oximeter in Dean's little going away present and the older hunter was not at all impressed with the readout, immediately setting up the portable oxygen tank and handing Dean the mask to put on. Hating to admit he's goddamn relieved at the sight of it, Dean stuck his nose and mouth greedily into the rubbery plastic and wheezed in and out.

He didn't even realize his eyes had closed and he may have slipped out of it until something unyielding was stuck into his ear – waking him right the fuck up.

**:::**

"Easy, Dean." Sam said, "just taking your temp."

Dean blinked heavily. "When'd you get here?"

"Always been down here with you, man." Sam's smile shifted to a frown of mocking concern.

_Something was definitely not right here._

"You're shivering. Let's do something about that."

And then Alastair doused Dean in gasoline and set him on fire.

_"Stay with me, Dean."_ Not Alastair's voice, Cole's voice - but the demon's mouth moving with his forked tongue was all he could focus on.

**:::**

Someone shrieked, maybe it was him. There was a commotion - besides the fact that he's burning alive – _flesh sizzling, blistering, charring - burning alive to death_ – and he heard the sound of thousands of grains of salt being tossed and scattering as they hit the hard-wood floors. And then someone was shaking him.

"C'mon, Dean!" Cool hands caressed his face. "Bobby, get the salt line down before he comes back. Crap, where's the thermometer?"

Something unyielding stuck in his ear and Dean _knew_ he'd already been through this bullshit and punched out before Alastair figured out that Dean was up to speed. His fist smacked into the solidity of someone's jaw. His knuckles were grazed and it felt fucking _good_ to put the hurt on someone else.

"Shit, Dean! Easy, _easy_...just taking your temp."

"Fuck you, Alastair...Cole...whatthefuckever." Dean found the breath to emphasize each of the next three words. "You're. Not. _Sam_."

Not-Sam's shoulder's sagged and his head bowed. He tried to reach toward Dean, but was immediately shied away from, slapped at until the coughing began. Thick acidic goop caught in Dean's throat while his lungs tried to churn it forward, and Not-Sam (maybe Sam?) began pounding him on the back frantically.

Alastair never had worry in his eyes. Alastair never had worry in his eyes because he'd just torture until he got the result he wanted.

And Cole wanted him to die, wanted him to die just like this rather than going down violently.

Considering the contortions his body is making – he still considers this kinda violent, but he gets the point.

He finally coughed out frothing streams of infection mottled bloody and black. Sam held him while he caught his breath, secured the oxygen mask over his face again.

"Hey, Sam." Dean murmured, spent. His head was lolling forward on his brother's chest, but now at least he knew it was his brother's chest. He felt the gigantic hands pressing the back of his head, comforting.

"Hey, man. Stay with us."

Dean felt himself swung to the floor gently, two pairs of hands, wet towels and icepacks being placed strategically. The stabbing pain to his ribs was a serrated bagel knife carving its way in slow, until he felt cool fluid push into the goddamn IV line Sam was so keen to have put in.

_If I get through this, I should probably tell Sam that he was right about that._

The realization poked through the fog of fever and pain. Recently he's been more like his dad with Sam than ever before in his life. It's become all about what Sam was doing wrong, all about his potential to screw up. And, Dean knew, a lot of that could be his own baggage. He went to Hell and graciously accepted his promotion, relished the responsibilities and the vacation package. Those were his failings, not his brother's.

Sam's hand was still in his hair when he became aware of the morphine working. Relief.

Ten minutes later, Dean's eyes snapped open. It was like reality decided to play Dog Pile On Dean.

He realized he's staring at crown molding painted Eggshell Fantasy or some shit. That fact _alone_ irritated him, nevermind being invaded by a ghost on a cellular level. "The fuck?"

"You're okay. It was Cole fucking with you again. Salt lines are up. You're okay." Sam tightened his grip around Dean's wrist, simultaneously grappling for a pulse. Dean's eyes sharpen to the details of his brother's exhausted face. The kid looked about two steps away from losing it. Even as he was watching, Sam pulled out a flask and sucked on it like a baby to the breast.

"I have some?" Dean asked, licking his lips.

Sam jumped a little, obviously surprised that Dean's watching him, and capped the flask hastily, tucking it somewhere out of Dean's line of sight. "Whiskey's not a good idea for you right now."

Dean wanted to shoot back that whiskey was _always_ a good idea, but Sam lifted his head and brought a straw to his lips, tucked it under the oxygen mask. Cool water - rinsing him clean.

"Bobby?" Dean called.

"Hey, whatever you need man, I can get it." Sam said firmly.

"Needa know where Bobby is." Dean smirked before taking another sip of water.

Dean heard a gruff voice from the other side of the room. "Right here, kid."

Dean lifted up his head, raised himself up on his elbows, all the while ignoring Sam's huff of protest. He'd bet anything Bobby is sitting in the great bay window, binoculars in his lap and his nose in a book.

"Bobby..."

Thick layers of puffy pink fiberglass insulation are unrolled in his lungs; there was no way he was going to be able to get out what he wanted to say. He flopped back down on the couch cushion they'd given him as a pillow, frustration making his already hot skin feel fiery. Sam gave his arm a squeeze and stood up, started rifling through things.

He came back with a pad of paper and a pen and the nebulizer to boot, then helped Dean to sit up against the wall. Dean shot a grateful look at his brother and began scrawling a note while Sam was setting the machine up, then sat there holding the mist spewing mouthpiece near Dean's face.

Bobby walked over and sat himself on the floor near Dean. It is a strange sight, to be sure – Bobby Singer pulling up a piece of carpet.

"Whatcha got for me, boy?" Bobby asked.

Dean held up a finger and finished scribbling his thought, then ripped the notebook paper out with a flourish and handed it to the older hunter.

_"The ghost has the juice to possess me if he wanted. He wants me dead so bad, why doesn't he just Puppetmaster me and get it over with?"_

Bobby sighed. "I've been looking up the subtleties of what ectoplasm means, not getting any answers either. I think you're right, he has thirty years and something he considers a mission – he definitely has the ability to take you over."

Sam's face went white, blood rushing out of his head at the idea that this ghost could go beyond deathly illness – just take Dean over and grab one of the guns. That he could go out with Ruby and come back to his brother's brain matter on the floor.

Bobby continued. "Maybe he doesn't know he can. Or.."

Dean looked at his friend sharply, stifling a cough and breathing in the chemical-tasting mist. Things felt slightly more open, especially as he's able to cough more shit up. Shit he doesn't want to look at anymore, but Sam was glancing at it like it a barometer of how much ghost is in him, which – to be fair – made sense. But still – it was friggin' weird to have someone inspecting his mucus.

"Or?"

"Or he wants you to make the decision to die. I mean, sure, he is prompting the hell out of you, making living real hard to do when you can't breathe. But he keeps coming back and asking you to give in." Bobby shook his head like he doesn't like the idea.

"He's a real gentleman." Sam snarked at no one in particular, then sighs. "He knows we're here. Knows Dean is here. We're not going to have the drop on him."

Bobby shrugs. "Least we know he knows."

"We gotta go in." Sam replied and shifted his crouch, holding the wall for balance. "You got the hot dogs ready?"

"Hot dogs?" Dean asked, taking the nebulizer mouthpiece from his brother's hands.

"For the dog. Stuffed the sleeping pills in 'em." Bobby answered.

Dean smirked. "Dogs for a dog?" It seemed a bit like feeding Big Bird chicken nuggets.

"Toss 'em, McGuire" Dean said, nodding to Sam. "I'll play lookout."

Sam handed the oxygen mask to Dean and then paused for a moment before standing up. "Promise me you'll stay here."

"Sam..." Dean shifted a glance up to Bobby to see if he was listening in. True to form, Bobby had wandered away, a fake whistle on his lips.

"Dean, please. We'll be in and out, but if we burn the flag and he's still after you... Just stay behind the salt, man. Promise me."

Sam was fiddling idly with the knob on the oxygen tank. When Dean finally caught his brother's gaze he saw some nameless fear caught in between the blues and greens. Maybe not so nameless. Maybe the fear of holding your brother's corpse in your arms.

"You want me to pinky swear?" Dean asked, trying to keep it light.

That earned him a bitchface. "Dean, I'm serious."

"I know. Yeah, okay, I promise. Relax."

Sam didn't say anything, but his eyes were screaming thanks.


	22. Exit Strategy

**Chapter 22**

**Exit Strategy**

* * *

Bobby and Sam dressed in dark colors and headed across the street, avoiding the dim glow cast by the streetlight. The dog began barking almost as soon as they get close to the tall privacy fence surrounding Mrs. Cole's backyard. Sam backed up a few steps and immediately started tossing the laced hot dogs over the long planks of cedar. They could hear the dog scrabbling on the concrete patio tiles, eager to munch on the snack. It was a smart dog, apparently, because it charged at the fence, long claws making muted scratching noises against the soft wood, nose level with Sam's pocket – trying to snuff out more kibble. The dog that was supposed to be one very unreasonable mutt was soon making soft whuffing noises along with the occasional whine. He ran up and down along the fence cheerfully.

"I thought you said this dog was Cujo?" Sam whispered to Bobby.

"When I saw 'im he was." The silhouette of the older hunter shrugged in the dark. "I dunno. Maybe all he needs is a snack and he's happy."

"Guess so." Sam murmured. The dog was digging his paws underneath the fence. Sam crouched down and gave the pup a quick pat on one of his front paws. He got licked for his trouble.

They heard the dog yawn loudly and his trotting pace along the fence line began to slow down. A few more muffled whines later and then total stillness had Sam peeking under the wooden slats to get a look at the dog.

"He out?" Sam heard Bobby ask.

Sam got up on his knees. "Yeah, he's out. He'll be okay, right? I mean, you know how much to give him?"

"'Course, kid. Rumsfeld didn't exactly go to the vet easy, but he always came back fine."

Sam let out a deep breath he didn't even know he'd been holding for the fate of a dog he didn't have any attachment to. Sam gave Bobby a quick nod and used an unraveled coat hanger to make quick work of the latch on the other side of the fence's gate. They both hastily headed into the backyard, away from the possibility that some insomniac neighbor might catch sight of them, and got busy hefting the snoozing pup onto the wrong side of the fence, covering him up with a camouflage tarp behind some bushes before heading back inside the gate.

Sam quickly got out his phone to text Dean, "We're go on your mark."

It took a minute, but soon they heard the sound of a phone inside the house ringing. They almost doubt that she's going wake up to answer it, but whatever Dean said worked. Bobby and Sam both pressed their bodies up against the back wall as Mrs. Cole peeked out into her yard, verifying the conspicuous lack of dog.

Their position didn't provide line of sight to the driveway, blocking their view of the car leaving, so the plan was for Dean to let them know when it's clear to head into the house. The reply came back in record time: "Go. Be careful."

Sam didn't have any trouble sabotaging the alarm, the circuitry was simple enough. He felt a sudden jolt of missing Dean, not having his brother beside him when he did actually have to cut the blue wire. Dean always loved it when life imitated the movies, and these days those simple joys were all they had. Sam promised himself he'd remember to let Dean know after this is all over.

Bobby picked the lock as soon as Sam gave the go ahead and the two of them stole along the shadows of the front parlor, the large display case quite obviously the focal point of the room. They took a long look at the shelves, which only held the flag and some old photographs. There was nothing else held in the glass cabinet that looked like it could be human remains, at least not what they could see from across the room.

The house was eerily quiet, the sound of their stealthy footsteps seeming louder as every sound in the room echoed off of the dark wooden paneling. Sam flicked on the EMF and they weren't surprised at the low-key hum that rang out. With each step closer to encased flag, the noise kicked up a notch – the change in frequency like the wail on a guitar's whammy bar.

Bobby shifted his grip on the iron crowbar he'd brought along, a container of salt ready in his other hand. Still, the spook wasn't making itself known.

Sam and Bobby shared a look.

Sam stepped into place before the glass tower and took a deep breath, got his wire cutters ready. The alarm was put in place by the same company as the house alarm, so once again he cut the blue wire. Still, all was calm.

Then Sam opened the door and everything went to hell.

Bobby was flung across the room, trying to catch the breath that was knocked out of him as he hit the coffee table. It took a few moments to blink away his double vision, but he heard the commotion going on in the background that told him Sam was still going for the flag. When he was able to focus again he saw the younger hunter using the small salt shaker he had on him to ward the ghost off, but Cole was phasing back so fast Sam was never getting a chance to get the flag out of its small triangular case, his hands fumbling with the clasp. Bobby located where his crow bar got dropped and was making his way to it when Sam was pushed headfirst into the cabinet.

The sound was awful, an explosion of tinkling glass. Sam fell to the floor, his lacerated face a smear of red, glittering with the shards still stuck in his skin. Bobby couldn't tell if he was still awake, the younger hunter's eyes hard to find under the soggy lanks of bloodied hair that were in the way.

Just inches away from the crowbar and it was flung out of his reach, landing somewhere behind the worn floral-patterned couch. Bobby looked up and saw Corporal Cole standing in front of Sam.

Sam's nose began bleeding black.

Stiff-backed, the soldier pivoted sharply toward Bobby.

_"You really think you're helping them? Either of them?"_ the ghost asked.

"I could ask you the same thing." Bobby sniped, trying to buy time as his eyes scanned the room for the salt.

With a shudder, Sam awoke coughing and puking ectoplasm, thick ropes of shiny black ooze falling from his mouth onto the shag carpet. Cole thrust a hand toward Bobby and tossed him another couple of feet, incorporeal boots treading across the floor with military precision until he was looming over his next target.

_"You already lost your brother once, man. Do you really want to go through that again? To be alone in the world, without your platoon, without your brothers?"_

Sam tried to form some sort of answer, but quickly found he'd choke if he tried to talk, his mouth immediately filling up with bitter ghost spunk.

Bobby yelled as he tried to get up again. "Don't listen to him, Sam."

_"You shut up!"_ Cole hollered. A blast of force once again took hold of Bobby's body, this time hurtling him into the wall, his head knocking senselessly against a shelf.

Now it was just the ghost – and Sam.

**:::  
:::**

Dean heard the door close behind Bobby and Sam and immediately began tapping out an anxious rhythm on his knee. As the minutes ticked by he did what he and Sam always did to pass the time, a time-honored tradition started by John Winchester. If Monster X started attacking, what was your game plan? The game, if it ever was really a game, was more fun nowadays, especially now that there was no stopwatch involved.

Dean's mind wandered over various creatures, figuring out the best way to waste them, even in his current condition. The only time he had trouble was when he had to pose the question John always made them ask.

_How do you make a quick retreat? Always know your exits, Dean._

The exit itself, wasn't a problem. It was the quick part. How does a dude who can't take a breath without a tank manage to get out of dodge by himself?

Dean's eyes scanned the room for anything he could make use of until he came upon the small portable oxygen canister Bobby had originally taken out of his massive first aid toolbox. Dean smirked a little.

_Too easy._

Still, if he was holding it in his hands, he wouldn't have room for a weapon or the car keys. Sam's half-empty backpack was sitting on the chair. He could stuff the tank in the backpack, carry it that way.

Dean didn't have time to congratulate himself on coming up with a speedy answer, more tiresome coughing coming as an unpleasant interruption. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, damp flannel feeling gross instead of comforting. "Ugh."

_Beware fuglies of the world, I'll come there and sweat all over you._

His ears perked up to a thump in the distance. A thump that could have been anything, but Dean's senses were primed for exactly that – anything.

_They're fine, they're fine. And it isn't like you can take a ghost out without some noise, jackass._

Still, Dean was already pushing himself up on his knees, grabbing the backpack with one hand and emptying the rest of its contents out onto the floor.

_I'm not breaking my promise, Sam. I'm just being prepared, y'know? For when you get back, so we can leave before the cops get here._

When he stood up his vision darkened, the bland colors of the room swimming before him. If it wasn't for the chair he was standing near, he would have been most assuredly sprawled on his ass. He was gripping the back of the recliner tightly when he heard the tinkling of breaking glass.

Before he knew what he was doing he had the small aluminum tank connected to his mask, stuffed into the backpack, and over his shoulder. He'd promised, Sam. And if he kept his promise and something happened to Sam, to Bobby? Then that promise and a fiver will get him one of those crazy latte whip things Sam drinks.

_Besides, Sammy comes out of this okay and he'll have a nice long time to sulk over it. And a sulking Sammy is a happy Sammy, or something._

Shotgun in one hand, a crossbow with iron-tipped bolts in the other, Dean made his way across the room taking slow deliberate breaths. Instinct was telling him he didn't have time to be felled by a coughing fit or six.

And just as he was about to cross the threshold of the doorway something in his lungs exploded. Or it felt that way, like hunks of his insides were being pulled to the outside on spiny crochet hooks. Screw the pain the pleurisy was causing, this – this was _agony_. This was pain Alastair would have been proud to have caused, the Dean began hacking, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright against the sensation his chest was being crushed, wetness splattering into the oxygen mask and dribbling down his chin. He wiped his arm on his face.

Blood, of course.

Looking down, he noticed the glittering white salt line.

_Are you friggin' kidding me?_

The ectoplasm in him was apparently bound to the room, him stepping across the barrier like stepping forward with bits of his lungs bolted into place. With an eye roll, he nudged a path for himself with his boot, grateful that his toenails didn't decide to randomly burst into flame as well.

More distant sounds of crashing furniture snapped Dean's attention past the scorching in his chest. He made his way out the front door of the house, each step costing him more and more air. More than that – the closer he got to the house, it felt like someone was turning up the knob on an oven, until finally someone blew the pilot light out and left him shaking from cold, the pool of sweat that was at his collar and the small of his back turning icy in the night air.

He was a foot away from the Cole's front lawn when he felt eyes on the back of his head. Dean didn't know how, but he knew there were eyes on the back of his head. He knew it wasn't a neighbor or stray dog either.

"Tsk, tsk. If you're having trouble with those pesky lungs of yours, I could arrange to have them removed."

Fucking Alastair. But it was the fever, right? Not real, not even a little bit. Dean turned to make his way back to the house.

"I wouldn't walk away from me if I were you, Dean-o." Despite the use of a nickname that used to have fond memories of his dad attached, the voice was unforgiving, stony. A voice that always got what it wanted – especially from Dean.

Dean held his ground, closed his eyes for a moment and refused to turn around. The house was sitting in foreboding silence now, the churning in his gut telling him that he did not have time to duke it out with an imaginary frenemy.

_I'm comin', guys._


	23. Giving Up the Ghost

**Chapter 23**  
**Giving Up the Ghost**

* * *

Dean pushed himself on across the lawn and into the Cole's backyard through the unlocked gate, praying he was putting some distance between himself and the mirage behind him. After a quick pause to spit out a mouthful of blood, he sidled through the backdoor. A mirror across the way gave him a vantage point to check out the room all the action was going on in – and it was all bad news.

The ghost was standing over his brother – who was giving shuddering gasping coughs, Bobby was unconscious.

Dean backed up into the kitchen – plan formulating in his head, even as his arms were already reaching toward the cabinets. He had to hurry, being this close to the ghost was doing something to him – his chest aching with a deep heaviness, each breath was doing less for him.

_Splenda. Cinnamon. Salt, c'mon tiny umbrella chick – where are you?_

Suddenly his eyes spotted it, the familiar girl in the yellow dress that had always brought him comfort, Morton Salt. Clammy hands reached up to snatch out the tall cylinder, which he could tell from the weight of it was still nearly full, thank god. Poking his thumbnail under the metal spout, he got it open and ready.

Calmly, Dean walked into ground zero, not bothering to fight the coughs that overtook him now that he didn't have to be in stealth mode. When he was done, he looked up to see the ghost had straightened up from his loom over Sam's body and was staring right at him in a creepy expectant sort of way.

Now that his little brother was in full view, he could see the blood covering every inch of his head, Sam's usually light brown hair looking black.

_Oh, god._

Dean swallowed hard against a wave of fear and anger, his gaze tightening its sights on the next supernatural being he was going to waste.

He swung the oxygen mask down under his chin. "You wanna talk...to me?" he gasped.

_"Talk is cheap, man. Action – action is the only thing we can do,"_ Cole pleaded at a frenetic pace, _"I just want to do right by you, that's all – I swear! And living every single day buried under these heaps of burden and guilt, no one should have to."_

"No argument there." Dean replied.

Dean had never seen a ghost do a triple take before. It probably would have been more amusing if the ghost in question hadn't practically just scalped Sam.

"Look, I get it...I do." Dean continued, bringing the mask back up to his mouth for a needed hit of oxygen. "In the beginning...you're with your unit, you're in it together."

Corporal Cole, apparently intrigued in what the elder Winchester had to say, began to pull back on the juice a little. Dean felt something start to ease up in his own chest, felt a little steadier on his feet – the room not swimming quite so much. It was possible that some of that was in direct relation to hearing Sam's breathing ease up too. Good news was good news.

"And you watch as all of them die, one by one. You're left alone to do unspeakable things. Then you're shipped home, as if you could even have a home anymore."

As he caught his breath, Dean caught sight of Sam blinking his eyes up at him. He really didn't want him to have to hear any of this.

Cole was looking at him forlornly, shaking his head. _"She wanted me to make a home here, but what I did – what they made me do, it's carved in here forever. Taking out Charlie didn't trouble me so much, but when Charlie's got kids..."_ The spook sounded terribly close to tears and Dean found himself wondering if ghost's could cry.

Cole's head hung low for a moment before he lifted his chin to meet Dean's eyes. _"I came back here, but I was still fighting the war in my head. Still am. That's why I gotta help you out, man. Let me."_

Dean nodded. "I'll go with you, I will. But I want your word – on your honor – that you'll leave my brother alone. The old man too."

"Dean, no!" Sam, who wasn't as concussed as Dean was hoping, had been listening after all. He wasn't so with it that he was lifting himself off the floor in a hurry, though.

"Sam, shuddup." Dean gave a glare frought with meaning to his little brother.

Corporal Cole went straight-backed immediately, saluting Dean. _"On my honor."_

"Let me say goodbye first." It wasn't a request; it was the last demand of a dying man.

Cole phased out of the way, giving Dean the chance to cross the room to Sam. He stooped in close, the metallic scent of blood overpowering as he hoisted his brother up to sit against the wall near the display case. "You still got the lighter fluid?" he whispered.

Sam's slightly unfocused eyes widened in surprise and relief and he nodded.

"Follow my lead."

Dean used the cabinet to get himself back up into a standing position, still keeping his back to Cole. He slung the backpack off and put it in front of Sam, removing the oxygen mask – ignoring the worried twitch that played across his kid brother's mouth. Considering mess that Sam was looking right now, Dean was pretty sure he had a similar twitch as he used the hem of his t-shirt to try and wipe some of the blood out of Sam's eyes. Sight was not optional in these situations. Still, as serious as this whole shit storm was, Dean's memory was automatically flicking back to the days of cleaning chocolate off of the face of the toddler who used to stumble around after his big brother with an adoring smile on his face.

Locking gazes with Sam, he stood the rest of the way up, knuckling his sternum as he arose. "Okay, Mikey. Ready?"

"Waiting on you, man," came the reply from behind him.

Dean spun around, the force of it jarring his already dizzy skull! His hands were gripping the cylinder of salt as he turned, a half-moon of protection forming around him and Sam as the salt-line ended at the wall.

They'd never heard a ghost stutter before, first in bewilderment, then in rage. Cole phased outside the wall of the bubble they were housed within, his hands reaching out like claws to try and snag Dean outside of the boundary.

Working quickly, Dean used the oxygen tubing like a lasso to try and pull the flag case off of the edge of the shelf where it could fall into his waiting hands. The first time, he missed. The second time, the corporal pulled on the plastic line to try and force his chosen victim out of the sanctuary. Sam reached up from his place on the floor and grabbed Dean by the belt, preventing him from tumbling forward into harm's way.

Dean snatched up the crossbow and tossed Sam the salt container. He fired without hesitation, clipping the ghost with the iron-tipped arrow and temporarily dispersing the soldier's energies into the ether. It bought enough uninterrupted time to get the triangular flag case into his hands.

Opening it was like a virgin trying to figure out where the clitoris is.

"…the fuck?" Dean gasped, his hands thumbing the clasps clumsily. "Sam, how do you…?"

Cole was back at the boundary. It didn't take him long to figure out that while he couldn't pass through the salt line, he could sure as hell start hurtling stuff toward the boys. It was like a tornado was suddenly assaulting the room, books and DVDs flying of their shelves, the glass within the window panes rattling. Glass shards from the broken curio flew up to deliver a million cuts.

"C'mon, c'mon…" Dean let it drop to the debris-laden shag carpet and tried to thump it open with his boot, but he was off balance and couldn't get enough force going to splinter the durable oak.

Now that all bets were off, it was as if the wind that was rising up around them was stealing the air directly from Dean's lungs. And bit by bit, the torrent of supernatural wind that was swirling about them was lifting grains of salt away from the line.

"DEAN!" A voice bellowed against the din. Dean looked up to see Bobby, crowbar in hand. The old man flung the iron rod across the room, right through Cole, buying them a few seconds of eerie silence before it all started up again. Before Dean could throw a hand out to catch it his body was overtaken by hacking, bending him in half as he coughed up blood, bile, and ectoplasm.

Mostly blood.

It was only because Sam managed to get himself on his feet and make a grab for the crowbar himself that Dean didn't end up with a temple full of pure iron.

"LOOK OUT!" Sam shouted, grabbing his brother by the shirttails and shoving him towards the safety of the wall.

Dean's body began sliding down the wall as he was forced away the encased burial shroud, the only sounds he was able to make out for a moment his own wheezing and the ringing in his ears. Sam stood up to his full height, muscular arms raised above his head as he slammed the crow bar down in one fluid motion, a crack of splintering wood as the flag was freed from its enclosure, the triangle of cloth doing an odd flip in the air like old games of paper football.

A hank of hair fell out from where it was tucked safely within the loving lengths of the flag. For once, luck seemed to be on their side. They could end this in one fell swoop.

In perfect synchronization, Sam went for the lighter fluid and Dean grabbed the salt, both of them pouring out liberal doses.

The roar of the room silenced so they could all hear the snap of matches bursting aflame.

_"I wanted to help you, soldier."_ Cole gazed at Dean mournfully.

His chest long past the point of being able to speak some pithy remark, the elder Winchester simply saluted.

Truth be told – Dean wanted help, he just wasn't sure what kind anymore.

Dean let the matchbook fall onto the iodized accelerant, feeling a flare of scorching heat beneath his sternum, leaving him immediately breathless as intense heat stole the oxygen from his lungs. Cole burned out, the ghost's form quickly absorbed in a _*whoosh*_ of phosphorescent flame. The entire room was bathed in the momentary glow, shedding a strange luminosity on both Bobby and Sam's blood-smeared faces.

Dean thought maybe he at least knew who he wanted the help from.

His stupid body thought he meant that _right_ now, his knees buckling as his breath hitched on the searing pain in his lungs. His younger brother grabbed him before he went down hard.

"Whoa, whoa…Dean, you okay? Bobby?" Sam asked even as pulled his older brother's arm around his shoulders and began helping him towards the exit. They were lucky the cops weren't there already.

Bobby stepped forward over the debris, eyeing the ring of blood around Dean's mouth, the t-shirt that wasn't quite as bloody as Sam's. He quickly grabbed the objects they came in with, stuck them in the backpack and started helping Sam get Dean out of the house. They were all in bad shape, with injuries that needed looking after.

"Take him to the car. I'll grab the stuff from the house."

Dean found himself being towed across the street, stifling a cough the entirety of the short hike. It seemed wrong, somehow. On the one hand, he felt better than he had in nearly a month. The fever was definitely gone, and he wasn't even having that extremely gross experience he normally got from breaking a fever, the distinct sensation he was being bathed in someone else's sweat. On the other hand, his chest was hurting him something fierce and it was as if he had gotten slammed into a wall of fatigue.

Sam was wearing a tight frown as he sat Dean into the front passenger seat of the car. He tried groping his older brother for his pulse, but only got his hand smacked away for his trouble.

"We gotta go!" Dean gasped, a high-pitched wheeze curling around the ends of his words.

Sam was not about to be deterred when he'd examined cadavers with more color than Dean was exhibiting at the moment, and opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, but Bobby came jogging up, tossing various duffels onto the floor of the backseat.

"Keys, Sam!" Bobby barked, throwing an unmistakable look of worry toward Dean.

Without hesitation, Sam tossed the keys to Bobby, a satisfying clink ringing out as metal hit metal in the older hunter's calloused palm. Sam scooted himself into the back, sitting behind Dean, who was now at too awkward an angle to deny whatever attempts at triage Sam wanted to foist on him.

Sam was surprised at how clammy and cool Dean's skin was, the pulse beneath the surface puttering along in a weak rapid fire staccato. He gripped his older brother's shoulder and shook, trying to put some focus back into a gaze that was darting around lethargically.

"Bobby, something's wrong."

Bobby only needed to take his eyes off of the road for a moment to realize that younger Winchester was not exaggerating. Bobby steered the car through suburban avenues with one hand and fisted Dean's shirt in the other, trying to shake him awake.

"Dean? You with me?" Bobby glanced nervously over toward the young man sitting next to him.

"Dad?" Dean slurred, his tongue laying thick and clumsy along the bottom of his mouth. Saliva thick with blood dribbled out his bottom lip as his head fell forward limply.

Sam didn't need paramedic training to know that his brother was going into shock.

"Sam, pull 'im back there and get his legs up!"

The car still moving, Sam reached forward into the front seat and hoisted an unconscious Dean backward by his armpits, quickly getting him settled in the back. He forced himself to ignore the déjà vu he was feeling, the memory rising up of sitting in the backseat of the car with his brother's cold, cold body after leaving a small town in Indiana. In a move he was sure to get crap about later, he rolled down one window and stuck Dean's feet on the ledge.

No sooner did the gravity start pushing blood flow back upward toward his brain than Dean's eyes snapped open, his body quaking as his stared up at the ceiling of the Impala in confusion. Sam was hooking up a bag of saline to the IV port still in his arm.

"Wh-what the hell, Sam?" Dean wheezed, shivering violently.

"We'll get you warm in a second, man. I need to know where you're hurt." Sam's large hands began their usual paths up and down his older brother's body with brisk efficiency, searching out any gash or bruise that could be the cause. He wasn't finding anything, and if he wasn't finding anything – did that mean the ghost wasn't done screwing with him?

They watched him burn, though. And fever was gone, so what the hell?

Sam ran his hands through his hair in frustration, hair that was becoming crispy as the blood dried in it, black flakes fluttering down like strange dandruff. His mind was flickering from one thing to another, not able to make sense of anything. It was how he often felt in those last few days of trying to hold out without the blood Ruby gave him.

_Dean, you need to concentrate on Dean...not Ruby. His blood, he's bleeding...not her blood._

"Sam?" Bobby called from the driver's seat. Sam caught his worried gaze in the rearview mirror.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ban the thought of the half-full flask from his mind. He couldn't exactly start chugging back demon blood right now. "Yeah. He's conscious. I can't find a wound."

"Dean, there was blood all around the salt-line. Did Cole go after you in there?" Bobby asked.

"No, but...the salt..." Dean broke off into coughing, his chest heaving erratically as he turned his head toward the floor and began spit out blood.

"What about the salt?" Bobby asked – his voice calm even as his driving revealed whatever panic he was hiding beneath the surface. Sam struggled to keep Dean from sliding off of the seat as the Impala took a corner sharply, the hand he put on Dean's solar plexus causing eliciting a sharp inhale.

Sam wasted no time in lifting Dean's t-shirt.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam swore softly, one hand going for his mini-maglite. The streetlamps they were passing provided inconsistent dim light, only highlighting the many dark shadows that were creeping across his brother's entire torso. What the maglite showed made him want to throw up – the entirety of Dean's upper chest mottled in scarlet and purple, with blood dotting the pores like a bad rash.

Sam's memories smacked him in the face with enough force to give whiplash.

They were the only visible wounds Dean had from Yellow-Eyes gutting him from the inside out while wearing their dad like Armani.

They were the colors Dean's corpse began to have as the blood pooled beneath his skin before Sam finally agreed to bury him.

It took Sam a moment to snap back with it, to realize Dean was gripping his arm. Gripping his arm and from the looks of it – worried about _him_. His brother wasn't in a hospital bed, he wasn't a corpse, he was right here in front of him.

Somehow Sam managed to swallow enough spit so that his dry mouth could speak once more. "It's internal," he called to Bobby before asking Dean what happened.

"Magneto," Dean replied – all he got out before he ran out of air again. Every breath seemed anchored to the ocean floor, his torso shuddering as every muscle in his frame tried to get more oxygen. "Shit." Something flickered in Dean's eyes, a spark of recognition that he knew he might be in trouble here.

"Magneto? What the hell does that mean?" Bobby asked, one hand on the wheel while the other one was searching through something in the front seat. Sam didn't know what until Bobby was handing the portable oxygen tank over to him. "Turn it up all the way."

Sam did as he was told as his mind tried to put together what Dean's clue was. Magneto.

"Dean, stay with me, man. Just keep breathing. Blink once for no, twice for yes. You got it?"

Dean blinked twice at Sam along with an eye roll even as he squirmed uncomfortably, his skin going from pale to ashen.

"Magneto – bad guy from the X-Men?"

Two blinks.

Okay, that was a start. Magneto's super power was exhibiting magnetic force over metal objects, a kind of telekinesis.

"Cole hit you with something metal?"

One blink. And a smack upside the head that had surprising strength behind it.

That one suggestion was pretty much all Sam had been able to come up with. Still, there was something there.

_Magneto, blood, Ruby's blood, Dean's blood..._

"Salt...line..." Dean gasped out, trying to sit himself up, but only succeeding in nearly passing out again.

_Wait a minute...blood around the salt-line._

A picture formed in Sam's mind, hanging out in a motel room, an open box of pizza on the bed between them. Sam was lying on his stomach doing a crossword, while Dean watched a movie in the background. X2. Dean had bugged him to watch the part where Magneto escaped from his plastic prison, had, in fact, flung the _TV Guide_ at Sam's head to get his attention. What had happened?

_Think, dammit, think._ Sam squeezed his eyes shut again, ignoring Bobby when he heard his name called.

Iron. The blue mutant chick had injected the guard with too much iron in his blood. Magneto had used his powers to pull it out of him, pulled the extra metal right out of his body, killing him.

Sam winced, picturing it all too clearly – Dean trying to rush over the salt barrier and making mincemeat of his insides in the process. Dean bleeding internally, a fever raging so high that it threatened spontaneous human combustion, but still crossing the street to be the hero. Sam didn't know whether to hug him or hit him. Maybe both.

Sam opened his eyes, breathing a single word. "Ectoplasm."

It wasn't a question, but Dean still blinked twice – hard.

"Sam, what the hell is going on?" Bobby snapped out, officially having lost all patience.

"Bobby, just a second. I promise." Sam dug his phone out of his pocket along with a scrap of paper and began punching in numbers.

"Hello, Ross? This is Sam – yeah, man. Wish I could say the same, but we definitely need the help. Access to a chest x-ray would be a start. Right now? Closer to Meadville. Clinic entrance in ten minutes, you got it. Uh, if you could get your hands on a couple pints of O negative, it wouldn't be a bad idea. 'Kay, man, thanks."

All traces of anger out of his voice, Bobby spoke again, "Just tell me which way to point the car."

**:::**


	24. All That Remains

**Chapter 24**

**All That Remains**

* * *

They pulled the Impala into a barely lit parking lot on the outpatient side off the Meadville hospital campus, the clinic obviously not open. Ross was standing out there with a gurney ready, twirling a large key ring around his finger nervously. The young doctor's mouth tightened as he looked from Bobby to Sam to Dean, cataloguing their injuries.

"I've already decided I'm on a need to know basis, guys," Dr. Aiken said, helping Bobby and Sam get Dean out of the car and onto the rolling cot. "So, just tell me what I need to know."

Sam was immediately at a loss of how to explain how Dean got internal injuries from ectoplasm, nevermind the whole conversation about ghosts existing. "Um, so...did you see the second X-Men movie...?"

**:::**

**:::**

Apart from unexplainable blood loss, Dean's injuries weren't nearly as severe as they looked, a chest X-ray giving a nearly clean bill of health apart from some minor damage that Doogie swore up and down looked more like scar tissue than fresh damage – like a wound had been cauterized, even though the current livid bruising across Dean's chest told a story of recent injury.

Ross didn't bother to ask how an extremely ill man with no injuries turned into what looked like a trauma patient with no illness.

They waited out several hours together in the clinic waiting room – the only room with a TV, giving Dean blood, fluids and oxygen while watching him for more signs of a lung bleed. In the meantime, Ross stitched up the many still-oozing lacerations Sam had, while Bobby napped in a chair with an icepack draped across the eye that was now completely swollen shut.

"Ugh, CSI or Law & Order – time to shut this bitch up!" Dean cried, getting up on his elbows with the remote he'd confiscated as soon as he was awake enough to realize what was happening.

Sam just rolled his eyes and contented himself to read Newsweek as Dean flicked through the channels.

_"...and in local early morning news, a small suburb of Meadville has been vandalized by a group of homeless men squatting in a foreclosed house. More on this on the four o'clock news..."_

Sam's head snapped up and he caught Dean's gaze, the question hanging in the air between them: Are you ready to go?

Dean pulled out his IVs and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, raring to go. Nobody missed it when he had to lean heavily on the metal side-rail to keep upright once he stood up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa.." Doogie says, "Where do you think you're going?"

"Look, you're a bright guy – have already put two and two together. Let's just say me and my compatriots need to get the hell out of dodge."

Sam frowned deeply, not bothering to hide that something was bugging him.

"What?" Dean asked, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

"You sure you're up to heading out? You're not done your IV." Sam nodded toward the half-full bag of saline.

"I'm sure. We left blood on the floor there, Sam." Dean threw both Bobby and Sam a meaningful look. The next stop for the police was going to be looking at the local hospitals. If they were lucky, they could leave before the onsite security started combing the place. If they were extremely lucky, what was being pegged as vandalism wouldn't cause the police to run DNA across federal databases, because he didn't know what the FBI had on them – but it would not bode good for stopping the apocalypse if the government found out he and Sam weren't deceased.

"You're sure?" Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the slouched form of his brother still leaning on the gurney.

Dean immediately straightened up, eyes darkening at the implication that he wasn't okay. Maybe he was still a little shaky, but he'd driven under a lot worse conditions.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he challenged.

Sam turned to Doogie. "What do you think?"

_Really, Sam? Really?_ Dean thought, not hiding his frustration at all. It seemed like Sam was willing to trust anybody's opinion but his lately. Least this kid was human, though.

The kid moved toward him, asking silent permission to take his vitals as he outstretched his hands.

"Whatever. Make it quick." Dean muttered, sitting himself back down on the edge of the bed to submit to the exam.

Ross made quick work of taking his pulse and blood pressure. Dean couldn't help, but chuckle when Sam reminded the doc to listen to his lungs and Doogie threw him a look, clearly not thrilled with being second-guessed.

"Well?" Dean asked.

Doogie scrunched up his face. "I'm on the fence."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

"Your blood pressure is still low, you're still dehydrated, and you're still wheezing a little, but that is probably from the scarring. Your lungs sound clearer every time you manage to cough and your temperature is fine."

"Is there something you can do for that? The scarring?" Sam asked. "We can stay if he needs treatment."

Dean shot a look at his younger brother. A younger brother who seemed to be enjoying pulling rank. Still, he kept his mouth shut and waited for the doc's diagnosis, because if he was honest, maybe it wasn't all Sam here – maybe it was that he'd been out of the driver's seat too long, laid up like he was, and was itching to be the boss again. Maybe if he was even more honest, he'd been feeling like that elder brother seat didn't fit nearly as well since he got back from Hell and had been less understanding about a lot of things when it came to Sam.

"There's nothing to do. You can do respiratory therapy – basically taking deep breaths, challenging your lungs. It's fairly mild damage, they'll compensate for the scarring sooner than you'd think." Dr. Aiken said.

"Right, so…breathe in and out, fluids. Good to know, dude, I'll make sure to do that for sure." Dean smirked as he stood up again, more slowly this time to avoid the head rush. He snagged the clean flannel shirt Sam had gotten him from the car and begin shrugging his arms into it, because the less you walk around covered in blood the less often people assumed you had heavy artillery stashed in your car. Plus, it was just gross.

Sam just stood there, stock still except for a hand nervously patting down his pocket as if looking for something. Now that the blood was more off his brother's face than on, Dean could see how unwell he looked.

Throwing a careless look at a half-full duffel bag, Sam grabbed it and made for the exit. "Just gonna toss this in the car," he mumbled, swallowing hard gulps of air.

"Dude, you okay?"

Rather than respond, the younger brother blew out a shaky breath and sat himself heavily on the closest waiting room chair, cold beads of sweat prickling up at his bloodied hairline as all color leeched from his face.

Dr. Aiken got to him before Dean did. "Alright, Sam, head between your knees, there you go."

Bobby jumped up and filled a paper cone at the water cooler, handing it over for Dean to administer, his brow furrowed in concern. "Doc, I thought you said maybe a mild concussion only."

The hunched Winchester began raising himself upward and almost as soon as he did, Dean's hand was weighting his shoulder heavily. "Down, boy."

"I'm not a dog, Dean."

"I dunno, dude, this shaggy hair? I'm pretty sure Disney made a flick about you."

Sam made a move upward again.

"Alright, I'm sorry, no hair jokes. Just chill, okay?" Dean crouched down and when Sam lifted his chin he saw his brother's worried eyes gazing at him.

"To answer your question – yes, only a mild concussion. He did lose a good deal of blood, though. Not enough to warrant a transfusion, but certainly enough that I wanted to put in an IV."

"…but Sam doesn't have an IV." Bobby said, posing as Captain Obvious, giving voice to the words Dean was clearly searching for.

"Sam?" Dean asked sternly, his arms supplicating for an explanation.

Sam sat up wearily, wiping a hand across his brow, giving the exit a look of yearning. His response came with no heat behind it, just a sigh. "I just didn't see any sense in him putting it in. Just gimme the duffel and I'll start packing the car. I'm okay, really."

"Yeah, 'cause nearly passing out is just buckets of health," Dean snapped. "Y'know, I don't get you man…"

"What don't you get?" Sam asked, a bit of ire slipping into his own tone.

Dean looked up, his face walling off once he remembered it wasn't just him and Sam in the room – the path of least resistance, because if there was one thing he was used to it was closing off.

"Nothing. Look, doc, can we get a to-go bag of one of these things for him?"

Doogie blinked as Dean nodded his head toward his younger brother. "You mean put a line in him? Sure, I can do that."

"Dean, you're the one who wanted to g-"

"-I know, Sam," Dean said, his eyes flashing warning even as his voice remained cool. "We're going to take Bobby back to his truck, we're going to get to the nearest motel outside the radius of the search zone, and you'll be in the passenger seat soaking up saline like the good little SpongeBob SquarePants you are."

"Glad that's settled then." Bobby said, effectively curtailing whatever protest the younger brother may have wanted to put up. A plan that got them all closer to health and away from a jail cell sounded just peachy to him.

Sam slid his butt backward in the curve of the plastic chair, rolling up his sleeve to submit to Dr. Aiken's ministrations with clenched teeth.

Now that he had a good deal of his energy back, Dean was realizing how often his own jaw was set in stone as well. Or maybe he'd just been on edge since Hell so much it was all part of the package. Maybe it was just now he was pulling his own head out of his ass long enough to look at his brother and realize how angry he looked. Even underneath the paleness of his normally vibrantly tan complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, lay an aura of lingering resentment.

_Well, excuse me for breathing_, his mind immediately smart-assed back.

And Dean faltered, because what if that _was_ what Sam resented.

The thought seemed ridiculous and self-pitying, but he was the first to admit these days that he didn't know what the hell was going through Sam's mind. He began packing some of their things, turning his back toward the other men as he worked this out in his own mind.

It was still Sam. Still _his_ Sammy. The kid who was delighted when Dean had stolen chalk from school so his younger brother would have his very own hopscotch. The man who just last week got in an argument with him about who the best Enterprise captain was (to be fair, Dean started that one – James Tiberius Kirk was clearly the best choice).

Maybe Sam wasn't his Sammy anymore, though. Maybe it was _Ruby's_ Sam. The hurt and indignation flared up brightly in his chest for moment, accentuating the dull ache left by burning ectoplasm. And then he felt Bobby's eyes directed his way, like common sense being drilled directly into his skull.

Him worrying about Ruby and Sam, how different is it than every other time? Since his dad first told Dean he had to save or kill his brother. Since they dealt with psychic visions and weirdo immunities. Since Yellow-Eyes insinuated that the Sam Dean brokered back with his soul wasn't truly Sam. Since they were informed that his brother had been lined up to lead the armies of Hell. And every other goddamn time scheming demonic assholes had lined up to tear the Winchesters down.

It only worked if they let them. It only worked if Dean let them. And maybe it only worked if Dean let _him_; if he let Alastair succeed in completely carving out every shred of humanity he might have had left and replace it with fear, anger, and suspicion.

He heard Bobby's steady voice clear as day in his head, _"If you want out of the shadows, boy, 'bout time you're willing to step into the light."_

Dean turned around with a deep breath - ignoring the ache. He gave the young doctor a friendly slug to the arm as way of a good-bye, picking up the extra bag of saline to rig up in the car.

Worn-out boots took their first true steps away from Hell on freshly waxed linoleum in the dusky pre-dawn hours of a western Pennsylvania town. The first steps of a long ass journey. It wasn't the giant leap of faith you'd have thought it, not when he knew exactly who he was walking towards.

And if Dean had to have faith in something, he'd sure as hell rather it be Sam than anything else. An unknowable God he couldn't punch in the face for lying. A set of beliefs he couldn't offer a solid hour of National Public Radio to three days later by way of a non-verbal apology for said punch. And neither offered him nearly so much in the way of hope.

He offered back in return, the same hope he'd always had, that so long as it was him, Sam and the open road, things would be okay.

* * *

...epilogue


	25. Epilogue

**A/N:** This has been an amazing ride, guys. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and all the support. Hopefully you find the ending satisfying.

* * *

** Epilogue**

Dean coughed noisily in the driver's seat, the first cough in a month that elicited an eye roll rather than a glance of concern. Sam ignored his brother's oh-so-subtle efforts to get his attention, his eyes focused on the text Ruby had just sent him, wondering if he should get together with her. It scared him that losing blood from the gashes in his head had made him so shaky, scared him more that drinking demon blood later on had cured him instantly.

"Well, I hope those are sexy texts that are keeping you so enraptured."

Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean. "And if they are?"

"Then I'd accuse you of stealing my phone," he chuckled.

Sam twisted his head as they zoomed past the interstate ramp.

"We're not going to Bobby's?"

"Naw, think Bobby could use a break from us. Whaddya say, Sam, just us for a bit?"

Sam looked at his older brother as if he's completely taken by surprise. Lately, it had all been rough terrain between them, uneasy footing with no bridges. Peace treaties that minor skirmishes could crumble.

But he saw the beginnings of resolve and a lightness in Dean's eyes he hasn't seen in awhile, saw his brother.

Sam glanced at his phone for a moment as if considering what was on the screen and then put it away. _For a bit._

"Yeah, man," a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You and me."

Dean nodded in appreciation before giving the old girl a little gas, the engine humming soothingly, enjoying the warmth of the sun beaming into the car, chasing away the late autumn chill.

**:::**

This? This was what Cole didn't understand. Some soldiers fight for god, country, honor or respect.

Some fight so they keep home safe, even if it was just to keep idea of home intact.

Even if they never had a hope of actually making it back someday themselves.

Dean stretched an arm backward over the bench seat, the resistance of the pull and the vibration from the car doing just enough to ease his shoulder comfortably. Glancing at his brother again, he turned up the music a little and drove into the sun. Found himself driving right into the image Hell had purposefully stolen from him in order to break off a piece of his soul.

It fit right back into place.

For the first time in forever, he breathed easier.


End file.
